DON'T READ THIS ISSUE before bed, kids.
Somehow, through no effort of my own, all of the stories in this issue bear a striking thematic similarity. And the theme, summarily, is Frankenstein’s monster.
Just follow me, here:
Heroin addicts, drowned baby rabbits; lonely and heartbroken people—the fiction in this issue is dark and experimental; kind-souled but god-awful ugly. These stories may be beautifully composed, but uplifting, they are not.
And, for better or worse, it is with that introduction that I present the following newcomers to Slush Pile: Jon-Michael Frank, Ann Gelder, Ben Schachtman, and Douglas Silver, as well as Joseph Riippi, an old hand... (read more)
IF I WERE JABBER I would remember that field. If I were him, I would lace up my boots, drag a stick across Milly’s picket and let em’ hear: ricket-ricket. Tell em’ I was coming up the hill. I’d let that sun creep on up over the edge, fill in my pockets, grab the little shiner and pull one to the heart. Shovel me under the tallest tree and shade the cows till rain tomorrow. (read more)
LET'S SAY YOU ARE a movie star. Your name is B. It’s true that certain people have deemed you just a tiny bit past your prime, when you appeared as a death-ray-packing, wisecracking sex kitten in a series of blockbuster sci-fi pictures. But what these certain people fail to recognize is that you are, at this moment, more beautiful than ever. (read more)
I WOKE EARLY; STILL black beyond the bedroom curtains. Rain dripped from the roof gutters and ricocheted across the restaurant courtyard. I rose and dressed, listened to the rain and her breathing and tried not to wake her. In the kitchen I filled a dirty wine glass with tap water. I gathered my folders and the laptop from the table, checked the clock above the stove. I hurried back to the bedroom for my sweater and tie... (read more)
I REMEMBER THAT I DID my hair up with Elmer’s and Kool-Aid, some real London-calling shit. Had my own apartment. Fridge full of left-over pizza and beer. I read Burroughs and Stephen Hawkins. I snorted a lot of speed, kicked it without a problem when money ran short. Thought I was really fucking cool. Look you right in the eye, man, look you right in the eye and laugh the laugh of the righteous. (read more)
JUDGEMENT DAY. QUARTERLY EVALUATIONS at Wincorp and I feel layoffs in my bones. This is one of the four days a year you’d do well to know my name: Robin Samuels, Human Resources Director. Everyone in the office calls me the Terminator. Not that I kill people, like in the movie, but usually you don’t want to be alone with me in a room. Granted, I’m not the most popular person at work. What I say to that: Jesus wasn’t always on everyone’s It list, either. (read more)
ALLISON EVANS WAS BORN in 1979 in New Haven, CT. She attended Dartmouth College, where she received her BA in Studio Art and Art History in 2002. In 2009, she received her MFA in painting from Hunter College. Recent exhibitions include shows at Edward Thorp Gallery and Buia Gallery in NYC. Allison lives and works in Brooklyn, NY.