If anybody gets that reference, I’ll buy you a whiskey when next we meet. In either case, the problems with the last post should have been corrected, so please, please, check back in with “From the Bend to Rio,” and hopefully it’ll be better this time around.
So, I fucked up, as you’ve probably noticed. Screwed the pooch, as it were, and can’t fix those photos from this barstool. Sorry all, I’ll correct it first thing tomorrow. Epic fail.
Bone Us Post
After getting locked up, Januariard Post thought for sure it would go down in the showers. But when two parentheticals cornered him in a blind spot during yard time, he knew what it was. They shanked him with a cliché and left him to bleed out, passing the cliché from hand to hand to hand until finally, it was tossed down a drain in the metal shop. Januariad Post lay bleeding. The walls were a...
And now for something completely different...
So, tell me my fine feathered friend, what vintage goes best with field mouse? A Spanish red? What about vole? Ah, Irish whiskey of course. Courtesy of the lovely folks at Nerve.com: http://www.nerve.com/news/current-events/drunk-owl-busted-by-cops “Before there can be hungover owls, there must be drunk owls. That’s what police in Germany, a country not unfamiliar with excessive...
One and Two, sat in the dark at a table with a chess board. A bare bulb hung overhead on a thin wire. “Move already, you know you have to.” One said. An old board, it’s chipped and cracked, the bishops are .50 bullets. The rooks are pepper-shakers from a diner of 12th that the health department shut down years ago. Somewhere, sixteen Russian dolls are without their innermost...
The Heart of the City
Jonas met the heart of the city one night in the Upper East Side. He’d gone there to pick up his girlfriend from her job, but she’d come to the door with concerned eyes, dark and tired. “Can you wait a bit? Come back in an hour? I’m sorry.” Hidden by the line of her panties, she had a tattoo of a kitten. Jonas, at seventeen, would wait all night. Winter rode the wind...
distorte: Look, I’m not going to exaggerate here: Even leaving aside my own dizzyingly, curve-wreckingly good contributions to Januariad, I cannot believe how many quality stories are being produced by a half dozen people scribbling things down between their day jobs. Jokes about assembling enough monkeys and typewriters are appropriate here.
I think I’m going to go home tonight and invent a time machine so that I can travel back a few thousand years to the island of Flores and kidnap several of the carnivorous midgets that used to live there. I’m going to ply them with box whine (Yes. You read correctly. They make it at this place in Howard Beach. It’s resealable) and Godiva wasabi chocolates, and if that...
Apricots and Chopped Almonds
1. There are, he thought while digging through wreckage, some things that I don’t mind being late for. The walls still intact were soot-streaked, with holes in them of various sizes. Qasir looked at one, a near-perfect circle, wondering if one of his kettles had made that and if he’d ever find it again. Grunting triumph, he lifted a chunk of the fallen ceiling revealing a battered...
Vanilla Ice Cream
It’s a little over a year and change ago. New York City in August, which means I’m standing at the door of a bar in Greenwich Village next to the NYU law Grad School and I’ve got a Camel light between my lips. It’s the first of the night, just a bit before nine and the Sun is being coy about giving up her stage. Exhale smoke, watch the street and wait for trouble. The moon...
Five Cans of Tecate
Stepping out of the cold, I stepped into a riot of New Years Eve. Jammed and shellacked together by sweat and optimism the crowd moved. I’d been swallowed and was waiting my turn at digestion next to a scrap of a Tyson’s television dinner and one of those chocolates filled with liquor, a couple chin-deep in each other and man having an argument with the voice inside him...
Jack: The Januariad →
jackrusher: Every year a rotating cast of reckless writers undertake the challenge of crafting and making public one complete piece of prose — any form, any style, any length, so long as it’s complete — for each weekday in the month of January. The rules are simple: each piece must be written entirely on the…