COLLECTIVE SUBCONSCIOUS

The following matchbook stories were written collectively (three words per person) at the Issue No. 1 release party. What more can be said? They speak for themselves.

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So then Jake pointed to the dart board and threw up on his supposed date, only to realize she had fallen upon someone elses. Dizzy and confused, she slid over: thud. The smell oozed across the felt. I only wished she could play along with my stoic act and pull some party ass with cue stick and 8 ball.

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In your britches wheat scratches your nuts like a fiery STD. What have we got here? A pocket full of bread crumbs? Feed the birds into long life and on-again-off-again pleasantries filter through urinalysis. Dirtier than suspected, the birds crawl beneath wet urinals, kneading my doughnuts into crumbs.

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One rainy day started early when Billy Jean pulled on her dog's leash. Lucy's tail wagged hard, knocking loose a filling in the skull's mouth. How dare you! College was just lost without a trace! Wet against my cheek were the gums and tongues of lands lost. Lucy knew how much her father loved the sand tears.

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Darth Vader's shoes are genuine tonton. You wouldn't know they're from Payless. His dashing mind is lost in his choice of armor and words: a man-machine. What matters is his sword. And his pantaloons, his mother said. "Fuck pantaloons! Give me a light saber." He quickly grabbed his glow stick and screamed.

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The box opened with a red fox monologue about your silky scarf covered in money. I couldn't afford anything else. Emotionally, I'm broke. Intellectually, I'm rich. Physically, I rock, drinking only beer. Under the scarf: Who me now? Scram fox, scram! Eat a clam. My spirit animal? Needs to be a sea cucumber.

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God My Feet

Please allow me another house plant. My jade died. What's the point? Sometimes you just can't do it!!! I want a puppy instead. Plants require music and sweet nothings. God my feet. Plant my orchid, it needs nourishment. God my feet. Fungus grows incessantly. Fills my house. Who needs a bunion licker anyway?

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"What the fuck," was what came in through the palindromic sigh-sound echoing down the elevator shaft. Ellen? Should I jump? "Only if you have the balls." Live, love, laugh, and take a big shit. Ah sweet relief. He decided that love is the answer to suicidal crap. Uber balls! He climbed up and pushed her off! Ah...

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A bird once stood amongst bears, twittered in the treetops, unfettered, lost in revelry. The peacock presents -wasted on reds, shitty weed- and then it realized time was passing too slowly. Time for hyperdrive over the freeway and got stopped. Superbowl halftime show distracts me from myself during it all.

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They stopped by, wishing they hadn't. Blood dripped down her unwilling thigh. Where are my eyeshades, she mumbled, squinting. They're all the way down the street. What should we clean up first? She started looking for the first mess they started. But of course she's feeling fresh.

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Sunday Morn

Eventually, glass drinks drinker omnivorously with hands, feet, and long straws, drawn from deep pools, and end up floating weightlessly down the shadow boxin'. What the fuck? Making less progress, I fell over. Into the depths, darkness enveloped me, cold, vacant, pearlescent, streaming: a song. Do this in memory of me.