We’re pleased to publish today a short feature on Lori Ostlund, including a wonderful story and a short interview. Please look on the FEATURES page or just click here.
I just wish you didn’t feel the need
You are mostly silent but when you do speak you take that tone with me.
My bones break easily. You see me as fragile, watch where I walk, wrap my ankles in cotton when it rains. The doctor pulls my bones apart, bends my wrist back, pushes in a way that will allow it to heal in four to six weeks. You hold your arm where mine is broken.
I don’t know what time you get off work and I slept on your
Opposite of Succubus?
The Asian girl was a graphic designer. I stole her ideas when I could. She said she gave them to me. She had a thing about gifts. You couldn’t take anything from her. That was what frustrated me the most; she made everything I stole seem like a favor. I came back to her because I wanted her to see her delusion, but then because I liked the delusion—it suited me. She thought it suited me that
We’re looking for 100–200 word pieces of fiction, nonfiction, or other, key element that they be interesting and not run-of-mill fare. If interested, send to us using this email link: Send me to BLIP at once!
Our fine staff of editors will read same and select items they find of particular attraction for posting on the front of the site, the better to entertain passersby.
We make no promises,
Transparent Horse (I)
Equine anatomy fills the room,
a muzzle at the edge of the rug,
its pastern between the coronet and fetlock,
you are happy it is evening.
The cannon bone is spectacular and sharp,
and I hold the left one
to the light. I like the stifle and so
I give it to you. The hoof, upside down
shows clearly the frog–the triangular area underside.
— unused fragment
It crossed my mind, this one’s viewpoint, but he has dry hands, bony wrists.
He drinks tomato juice from a paper cup. I sip on my coffee, read this magazine from back to front.
— feb 22, 2011
I leave before the wife gets home. She’s walking up while I’m pretending to look at something on my feet.
“Oh, it’s just a bite,” I say.
“A little fucking bite!”
“What’s the matter with you?” she asks.
Years ago I had a lot of time and would answer such idiotic questions. She was thin then, and used mascara, blush. Now everything’s loose and natural and I don’t like it one bit. Even the dogs are different.
In the rain, fat-assed drops land like liquid bombs on our lips and lashes. We hide beneath the belly of Granddad’s tree, shaking,
Early in our association, the Warrior Poet said, “I’m a warrior poet. Before I walk into a place, I look around to make sure I can kill everyone in the room with my bare hands.”
Now the Warrior Poet is dead. Self-inflicted.
My father. WWII. U.S. Army, frontline infantry. Battle of the Bulge. Bronze Star. Purple Heart.
Before he shoots himself, he tries to take a couple of people