Posts Tagged ‘ XIII.I ’

Defenestration: April 2016

Apr 20th, 2016 | By

Well, well, well, what have we here? Has another issue of beloved humor magazine Defenestration crawled ashore to lay its eggs? I think it has!

I think Eileen would agree with me that editing this magazine has, on the whole, been an immensely positive experience. We get to read a lot of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry–most of it never before published, and some never before seen by another magazine or editor. That’s a cool experience. A humbling one, certainly. And it’s one of the things I love about editing Defenestration.

But the world can’t be sausages and rainbows all the time.



“Teratology 101: A Handbook for New Mothers in the Monster Age,” by Christina Dalcher

Apr 20th, 2016 | By

To ensure a head of disproportionate smallness, it is recommended the mother be an alcoholic. While moderate drinking may effect inadequate head size and facial defects, the desired malformation of ears, nose, and digits cannot be guaranteed without regular and heavy consumption of alcoholic beverages, particularly during the first trimester. Spirits are preferred to grape-based products.



“Pitch Meeting: Election 2020: Running Mates,” by Kathryn Paulsen

Apr 20th, 2016 | By

“See, it’s Barack and Hilary all over again, only she’s a Latina firebrand married to an ex-priest and he’s a rabbi married to a feminist scholar who’s a dean at Harvard.”

“Hey, what if he’s a rabbi and dean of the religious department at Harvard, and she’s the prosecutor who cleaned up Houston?”

“Works for me.”

“So they hate each other’s guts, but it’s not because of the religious and ethnic differences.”



“Pinning,” by Lindsay A. Chudzik

Apr 20th, 2016 | By

I played tennis with Madeline Morling each Monday. Everly Trickett and I did tea on Tuesdays. Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays I lunched with other ladies who lunched. I spent weekends shuffling my children to play dates with the Morling, Trickett, and Kipling children, and shuffling my husband, Andy, and me to dinner dates with their parents sans the Kiplings. Andy didn’t approve of Russ Kipling, our newest neighbor, because he had secured their home through what my husband called “a tacky foreclosure.” Also, his wife worked in the non-profit sector while Russ cared for their twins. Andy often said, “Never trust a man with unscuffed shoes, Corrine.” He insisted this pointed to laziness and an unwillingness to provide for his family.



“The Day That Went Hobnaciously,” by Han Adcock

Apr 20th, 2016 | By

It was Thursday. Thursdays are good for wandoodling your time, but it’s better to put any Time you don’t need into one of those big, green plastic thingies and leave it out for the Midnight Collector. He always refuses to take it but hey ho.

Who invented Thursdays anyway? I stood on the decrepit corner between Pointless Walk and Eville Avenue and I demanded to know the answer. The bins outside number twenty-four were so sparkly but still, they only answered with a silent reflection. Silent reflection is a good practice to keep in public, but like so many other people, I—



“This Is Probably Not The Right Time To Tell My Wife About My Awesome Movie Idea,” by Doug Cornett

Apr 20th, 2016 | By

From above, probably on a helicopter, we see an island in pandemonium. In the center of the island there’s a volcano that is just spitting magma all over the place, smoke pouring upward, the whole place is rumbling. But what is that we see? Down at the base of the volcano, somehow not engulfed in lava? We zoom in. It’s a hero, and he’s, like, meditating up on one leg. He’s got his shirt off and he’s ripped. Then… his eyes snap open!



“Former African Despot Mobutu Sese Seko is a Subway Conductor on the 6 Train,” by Emily Buckler

Apr 20th, 2016 | By

Spring Street. Stand clear of the closing doors. This train will skip Bleecker—I do not care for it. Transfers to the 4, B, D, F, and M trains must use my brother Rodney’s special car service.



Two Poems by Matt Dennison

Apr 20th, 2016 | By

Onion Never buy a single onion if you live alone. For unless you are greatly skilled in the art of onion management, at some point you will end up with less than half an onion on a little plate on the middle shelf of a nearly-empty fridge, it’s pitiful, withered, stem looking like the sliced-off

[continue reading…]



“Yours in undead desperation (a zombie soliloquy),” by Anna Della Zazzera

Apr 20th, 2016 | By

I’ve started to keep a Food and Feelings Journal,
but it just ends up sounding like the lamest brand of forced narrative.
Like Chicken Soup for the Mystically Reanimated Soul,
or that recurring dream I have where I’m the host of
a low-budget, zombie-themed daytime talk show,



“Food Policy,” by Bob Schildgen

Apr 20th, 2016 | By

The cigar is chewed to nothing,
there’s earwigs on the brie,
but the dumpster’s flowin’ over
and there’s plenty here for free.