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Russ Woods

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Sara's apartment kept getting flies in it. The flies got in her food and in her drinks. They got in her refrigerator and in her dog's food. The flies were small, like fruit flies. Then, after these small flies began pouring through the windows, in numbers like she'd never seen before, larger, fist-sized flies began accompanying them. The little flies began to coat every imaginable surface. They got in Sara's nose and in her mouth. She could feel them coating the insides of her. Sara couldn't move in her apartment without feeling fly bodies pressing on her from all sides. The flies were everywhere. Her dog suffocated after one of the large flies muscled its way into his mouth. Sara tried to come to him, to save him, but she couldn't move because there were flies pushing against her from all sides. She couldn't even see his body after he died because of the flies on her eyeballs, pushing up under the insides of her eyelids. Sara tried to leave, tried to move, tried to do anything at all and realized she couldn't. The flies were too numerous, and had gotten into too many places. The sheer mass of the flies' swarm kept her from even falling to the ground. She gave up and let herself hang there, upright and limp in what used to be her kitchen but now was just flies.


Sara's parents died when she was young from a hunter and old age. Sara went to live with her aunt, who was a bear sound effect that emitted from tinny toy speakers. Sara did nearly what she wanted but never quite shook her aunt, who was always always in her, judging. A bit-crushed growl soundtracked her unpaid bills and slept-in mornings. Sara wrote a song about it:
aunt bear, aunt bear
back again with sara


Sara always felt her limbs working. She would whisper hello to them all of the time and thank you and good job. Sara's limbs appreciated the encouragement. She used to cry at nights. Planet-sized sobs that would turn her back and legs in ways that backs and legs shouldn't turn.

hello   thank you   good job

A Joke

Once there was a seahorse. The seahorse lived in an apartment off of Halsted on the south side. He had a cat and a dog he really liked. One day a man knocked on his door and delivered a package. Oh gee, said the seahorse, I wonder what it is. The seahorse opened the package and inside was a note that said how are you breathing air


Christopher loved driving down the highway. He loved how the signs had names for towns nowhere near him tempting him to drive to Memphis instead of work or Detroit instead of the grocery store. The other fantasy the highway gave him was that of destruction and death, of his and everyone else's cars turning over at full speed, their hoods peeling back like sardine tins and his and everyone else's skulls grinding huge smears of blood and flesh across the pavement. This was fantastic.

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