Prose

“An Update from Your Favourite Ultra-Successful Realtor!” by Alex Colvin

May 1st, 2019 | By

I haven’t had sex with my wife in 270 days, and counting! And I’m proud to share that fact! Do you want to know WHY? Because I can’t make money or further my career when I’m having sex! My main goal is to be to most successful realtor in all of the Merrittville region, and sex can’t help me do that. Instead, I get pleasure and release from reading my trade records and watching money pour in from my Buyers, who I’ve convinced need to pour the entirety of their pitiful savings into a house that I convinced them that they need!



“Jeffrey and the Runaway Sock (Not a Children’s Story),” by R.D. Ronstad

Apr 24th, 2019 | By

Editor’s note: In the profile of Jeffrey Banks we ran in the July issue of It’s Clothing Time, we learned, not surprisingly, that Mr. Banks elicits a variety of responses from shoppers as he travels the country visiting chain store men’s departments spreading his message calling for a better life for socks. He’s been labeled as many things during these visits: a comedian, a charlatan, a nut, a loser desperate for attention, a forward thinker, a visionary. E-mails we received after running the profile contained similar responses.



“Galactic Fair,” by Stephen Parrish

Apr 20th, 2019 | By

Dear Dr. Brinkman:

Thank you for your submission of
2357.3 to the Galactic Art Fair, which I have reviewed with great diligence. Before we can proceed I must share a few observations.



“Catching Knives,” by Bailey Holtz

Apr 20th, 2019 | By

Blaise Frick-Durant was a nineteenth century French author, whose defining personal and professional attribute was that he only had half a nose. The other half had been severed off by the rogue boning knife he had launched into the air during an ill-advised knife trick demonstration in the company of the young female he had invited to his chambers and whom he, as written in his diary, hoped to “keep warm in the folds of my culottes.”



“Pastiche,” by Trash Clapton

Apr 20th, 2019 | By

I was a doctor. One day I was visiting a friend’s lab to pick up some medicine when this guy wearing a deerstalker just abruptly walked up to me, magnifying glass tucked in his pocket. “Ah, so you’re the very fellow who’s looking for a roommate, eh? Obviously your name is Jack Duflack and you clearly fought in the Caribbean before turning into a professional sun tanner on the beach—am I wrong?” he said with a knowing wink.