141 lede

A Brazilian Sugar Mill
by Dominic Carew

 SIT at my desk at the investment bank on the seventeenth floor, which may as well be the moon for all the contact we have with the real world here, while below, on the street, a din surges. “Cookies? Does anyone want cookies? We’re going to buy cookies.” I order two white chocolate and macadamia cookies. One for now, one for tonight after dinner.
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Josefine Petersén's Must clean poop off panties

Life’s blurry. Then I shit myself (only a little). Nothing a few beers won’t take care of, color me intrigued. What’s the holdup? Sign me up, fool!

(The world is other for a while.)

A storyline is evading me. I might be searching for it, that or a punchline. Then I fell and hit my head. I see cockroaches (note to self: WTF). It’s all good, bitch! I’m cool! Honestly, it did hurt a little. And by a little, I mean FUCK. Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. Nothing a few beers won’t take care of, let’s do this!

4 poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The People in the Ground.
are small
and hot to the

Their eyes
just egg whites.

Molten arms
over the forge.

At the Edge of the Soil. by Luis Neer

It was after curfew
I was in town, in the alley
with Margaret and Jordan,
the streetlamps shouting white light,
and I took off my socks and shoes
and felt gravel biting frozen at my feet.

Jordan said to me, “Let’s go to the overlook.”
I said to him, “Let’s run!”