Colin Brush vs. Braydon Beaulieu
Free Therapy By Colin Brush
‘I’m in therapy, you know,’ is the first thing that comes out of Ellery’s mouth while lying across my bed. Her fingernails are bitten down far enough that they must have been bleeding and she didn’t take off her dirty sneakers before hopping onto my sheets. ‘It really helps. But I don’t want my parents to think they were right so I’m giving my shrink the silent treatment.’
‘I see,’ I say, chewing on a pen cap. There’s a pad of paper on my lap but I have no idea whether or not I’ll use it. Ellery just showed up at my house and told me she needed to talk.
Read More | Final Votes: 52%
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: 48%