While you’re at Inner Chapters, you can buy a “Ride the S.L.U.T.” t-shirt. (S.L.U.T. was the name of the trolley in the South Lake Union neighborhood. I think the signs that named it have been taken down or stolen.) I want an “I Went Down On the S.L.U.T.” t-shirt to commemorate my fall on slippery tracks.
It’s ready, it’s done! I’ve been really excited for this to happen.
If you don’t already know, it’s worth buying Birkensnake for the cover alone. Only $4. You can make this happen here.
Here are first sentences from the issue:
For little girls with dirty hems and boys who scratch their knees, there is the ever-small door of the children’s factory. (Michael Stewart)
Was it shock, then, or fear, or else a naïve sense of civic duty that provoked Margaret to join the Queen’s court at Oxford? (Danielle Dutton)
In the cold summers, as the dirt rose, I’d have each child stand before me in the yard. (Blake Butler)
I clotted. (Rhoads Stevens)
I was made of string. (Matt Briggs)
I once dated a woman who kept her brother in a cage. (Christopher Boucher)
These days I’m a fucking garbageman. (Caren Gussoff)
From 144D all the way to 336G, past the 321, 322, 323, 324 all-aisle enclave whispering to a forebear each from behind, Julian kept straight and on the task at hand. (Matthew Pendelton)
Red celebrates return to consciousness by throttling doctor stooped over bed, whose pince-nez slips off to explode on white tile. (Miles Klee)
We lived in a valley of glacial till, a morass of moraine arranged by chance, as was my wedding to a man whose life was easy and brief, given up to the gods of excess and paunch. (me)
I live in tumor flats, formerly known as Taco Flats for the high percentage of Latins, even more formerly Elite Tacos, now also known as The Waste Land. (Joyelle McSweeney)