Braydon Beaulieu vs. Madeline Masters
Field Guide to Kleptoparasitism By Braydon Beaulieu
I stole my neighbour’s newspaper this morning. He has never noticed my compound eyes or mandibles. I click my jaws behind the hedge dividing our yards while he lathers his black Maserati. White suds on black. Like letters shining through white splashes. Or maybe I have it backward. Bastard.
When I skimmed my loot at 6:46 in the morning, I cut out a picture of MAY, Elizabeth Diane (nee Foster) from the obits. It’s in my back pocket. Her photograph smells like a pistachio shell. The rest of the newspaper is in a box in a drawer in the linen closet of my bathroom. My bathroom does not smell like pistachio, but of cinnamon and stale shit. My neighbour’s: Cherries and lavender. His Maserati wavers under cascades of hose water.
Read More | Final Votes: 59%
Floppy Discs By Madeline Masters
Raymond shuffled down the stairs.
“I’m coming, Christ! No one ever comes to anyone’s house anymore, especially not invited,” he thought, which made this occurrence exceptionally uncomfortable for him. He looked through the pane of glass in the door for a long moment. He saw the girl, sure, but was anyone lurking in the bushes, waiting to jump him?
She wasn’t white, and for some reason this made him trust her less. But she was brown, maybe Indian, not a race he associated with home-based crime. Still.
He kept the latch on the door and opened it.
“Hello? Yes? What do you want?”
Read More | Final Votes: 41%