Entrepreneur by Phillip Griffin
Barry knows he’s in deep when he starts hypothesizing about how the woman manages her pubic hair: a hippyish one, this. Probably not shaven then. But perhaps trimmed… Barry fancies himself somewhat hippyish, and he trims every now and then—keep the brush down, the statue tall, y’savvy. He doesn’t mind pubic hair, not at all—he likes women, not girls—but he doesn’t like walking away feeling like a cat pregnant with fur ball.
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Hot Springs by Cooper Malin
I am the brutality of a baboon’s canines,
I am the fecundity of a jack rabbit
I am a lily rooted in granite.
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The Swamp by Jordan Finn
The November sun casts a glare on the image of Gainesville, Florida that the two men watch from their newly found sofa. It’s an ugly thing this couch. A heavy odor of the outside but not quite a stench, permeates through the chintz, through their nostrils, something the two have admitted existed, referenced even through gesticulations and tacit gestures, but have yet to verbalize to the other. It has bulky cushions and far too many supporting pillows to be comfortable.
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“There is no real direction here, neither lines of power nor cooperation. Decisions are never really made – at best they manage to emerge, from a chaos of peeves, whims, hallucinations and all around assholery.”
DESOLATION SPRINGS
The Waste Division Crew's collaborative and collective fictional universe.
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Entrepreneur by Phillip Griffin
Barry knows he’s in deep when he starts hypothesizing about how the woman manages her pubic hair: a hippyish one, this. Probably not shaven then. But perhaps trimmed… Barry fancies himself somewhat hippyish, and he trims every now and then—keep the brush down, the statue tall, y’savvy. He doesn’t mind pubic hair, not at all—he likes women, not girls—but he doesn’t like walking away feeling like a cat pregnant with fur ball. It gets tiresome, plucking wiry ones from your teeth mid-act—takes away his suave, fucks with his rhythm. It puts a kink in his arc. For yes, he knows… knows the importance of a well-constructed narrative, steady rising action and the fall; how you can’t make music without taut strings and silence, the give and the take…
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Lowlands by Eric Toennis
“Gretchen, what are you doing?” Henry asked. He followed her into the bedroom.
“How did we get ourselves into this, Henry? I don’t see any other way out,” Gretchen said. She opened the closet door and began rummaging through clothes and personal effects.
“Please don’t, honey, I’m begging you,” he said
“Listen up, bub. It’s the middle of January, there’s two feet of snow on the ground, and I’m sure as hell not going to starve to death because all of a sudden you began your period.”
She dove back into the closet and continued to forage. A couple minutes later she stood at the front door to the cabin with a 12-gauge shotgun in hand. The wind screamed through the prairie. It screamed at Henry to stop her, but there was no way he was going to confront her now.
The Bonk by Jordan Finn
“Then is nothing really fixed?” Ishmael asked on his labored jog up the hill, attempting in vain to find his second wind. “Is nothing s-”
“Well,” Hal replied through belied meditation, “It’s nothing but the times that make us of course.”
They were coming up on the hill that rose at a steady grade. The slope ahead wasn’t that bad, but the three of them had made this run enough to know what was around the bend. And the next one.