"STACKS," in Midcult*
There is a man disassembling himself in my library. First he hangs two bulging plastic bags that read THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU on the backrest of a chair, then he body slams a charcoal camping backpack onto the floor with a THUD. His winter coat is almost a parka but not quite. ROC-A-WEAR is embroidered across the back and I swear I haven’t seen that Jay-Z brand since the Y2K scare. The man drapes the coat onto another chair. He removes his black baseball cap with white DET letters on it and balances it on the coat. On his tattooed, bald head is a blue bandana. He removes that as well, folding it and placing it into one of the two THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU bags.
There are layers to this man, I can already tell.
"Party in Tiltsville, Florida," in Gargoyle Magazine
I wake up to the haze of morning sunlight blazing into my rental. Nine in the morning and already sixty-nine degrees. Shielding my eyes, I see the cover of the hot tub laying flaccid on the grass, the bubbling cauldron likely a mass lizard grave. I remember the laminated house rules:
WIFI NETWORK: NETGEAR_AC1900
WIFI PASSWORD: DaytonaB!tch
PLEASE TURN OFF AND COVER HOT TUB IMMEDIATELY AFTER USE
"Mieszko," in Twin Flame Literary
Whatever language they’re speaking sounds to the clerk like breakfast cereal swirled in a glass bowl.
“Do you have additional proof of residency?” the clerk asks, handing back the green card. More cereal as the son relays the question to the mother.
“Snap snap snap.”
“Social Security card.”
“Crackle crackle crackle.”
“Now I need the four pay stubs.”
“Pop pop pop.”