Lori Ostlund Feature

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.

Kelly Renick

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

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Tablets

iPad users might see BLIP in the Onswipe mag­a­zine the­me, spe­cial­ly set for tablets. We’re just try­ing it out at the moment so it gets turned on and off.

Matt Salesses

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

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One hundred words

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

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Julia Johnson

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. We turn

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Nicholas Cook

— 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!”

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Len Kuntz

Ancient

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.

Voices Carry

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

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Jane Armstrong

Gri-Gri

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

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