*

WE CAN'T STOP TALKING OR
WE DON'T TALK AT ALL
BY ALANA KUMBIER

 
Then,

We want more rock, less talk. We make a trip to the United Dairy Farmers every night for ice cream cones and milkshakes, even though it’s getting colder daily and we have to put on our sweaters to go out.

We play croquet with the black walnuts that fall with alarming velocity out of the trees and crowd the patchy grass in our front yard. We swing, we cheer, we threaten to steal our neighbor’s nice, shiny, pro-quality golf clubs for further walnut sport. His bedroom window is always open, we can always climb in.

We go to the dyke strip club. The dancers wear starry bras and dirty white socks that glow in the blacklight. We get depressed, we get drunk, none of us tip much and no one gets a private dance. There’s no Britney Spears on the jukebox and none of us feel like going onstage during open strip.

We notice that one of our cats is slimming down as the others thicken up. This negates our household hypothesis that we're all putting on winter weight.
 
We fumble around and fuck in the dark until one of us gets hurt. We wake up in the morning and try again, sexy and serious and filled with purpose, even though we know it won't come to anything.
 

B R A V E   S O U L S   R E C E I V E Eyeshot's Friendly & Infrequent Update simply type your e-mail address below, or learn more about eyeshot-brand spam

How To Make A Funnel Cake
Miss Lola Belle

Anthraxeroxica
Lee Klein

The Beginning of the Wrong Novel
Amanda Eyre Ward

When You Turn Everything Into Symbol,
Bad Things Happen: Part One - Pretty Girl
Zadie Smith

Archive of Recent Activities

Submission Recommendations