“Defriended” by Ali Eteraz
My friend, if I don’t put up things for you to “like” it’s not because I don’t love you, but because I remember what you and I used to be . . .
111 search results found for “drug chronicles”
“The Boy on the Box” by GG Burrows
There’s lights on the ceiling, big white circles, each one brighter than beach sun, but you can’t blink or squint when they’re taking your picture . . .
“Like Unlike” by Kristen Valentine
You haven’t seen her in over a year, not since that Labor Day weekend you took her up to your family’s lake house and she got so pissed at you for shooting up right away. “Danny, I was serious,” she said, like you were supposed to know that. But how the hell could you tell she was serious this time when she’d never been serious before . . . ?
“Church Goers” by Margaret Barbour Gilbert
Mrs. O’Connor liked Burger King because it was cheap. When I arrived the next day, she was putting on makeup and drinking Coca-Cola from a large glass. “I’m almost ready,” she said. “That’s good,” I answered, “because I hate going into Mass late.” “I always love to go places late,” she said. “I hate to be on time . . .”
“Welcome, Cheater” by Douglas W. Milliken
It was one of those days when the snow started and wouldn’t quit, so we bought beers and drank them and didn’t stop until long after dark and anyway, we were out. The apartment seemed all stained and yellow and stank of rancid burger grease. The snow just kept coming. We needed escape . . .
“PFLAG Reflex” by Clayton Heinz
Mom steps away from the CD player and as the music spins to life I think: Oh fuck me, please no. It’s Michael Bolton’s cover of “When a Man Loves a Woman,” from the world’s most undeserving greatest hits collection . . .
“Knock Yourself Out” by Montague Kobbé
On Monday morning I woke up to the beat of electronic music drumming in the living room like it were Saturday. Or at least Thursday. I slipped into my jeans, half angered, half asleep, and walked outside looking more for an explanation than a fight. Except for my flatmate, the room was deserted, the subwoofer booming. His head bobbled from side to side like a serpent making its way up a tree, his left hand twitched not so much nervously as involuntarily, and he shuffled from one foot to the other as if he had been standing for a long time . . .
“No. Station” by Timothy Gager
I didn’t notice I had nodded out on the train and had missed my stop until the conductor clamped down on my bony shoulders in Wellington, saying, “Come on, honey . . .”