Fake Nonfiction

“I See Dick People,” by Marsha Smolev

Apr 27th, 2022 | By

I was starting down the aisle to my seat on Flight 288, moving past the woman with the white hair who was holding the overfed chihuahua, past the curvaceous athletic teenager who dropped her phone under the seat, when I locked eyes with an athletic tanned man sitting in 5C. He smiled, great smile, white perfect teeth, dark almost black eyes, graying hair. Why was he sitting there like that with bare shoulders?

“Gen-Z Workers Have Ruined the Culture At My Slaughterhouse,” by Michael Maiello

Apr 13th, 2022 | By

I’m a proud slaughterhouse manager of thirty years. I’ve seen the industry change a lot. But this new generation just might bring the whole thing down. Like, at our weekly “team meating,” my man Gus was presenting about how to best stun a cow with a captive bolt gun and sensitive Sylvester raises his hand and says, “I just think we can get beyond meat.” You know what, Sylvester? I’m Gen-X. I grew up listening to Morrissey. I knew meat was murder before you were even born.

“The Plight of Pesky Pachyderms,” by Jerome Wuthers

Apr 6th, 2022 | By

Last night I saw HIM again. No, not Jesus. (If only it was, maybe HE’D save me.) It was the elephant man. He was slinking down the hallway, in that mysterious little way he likes. He crawls on all fours, balancing on the tips of his fingers and the balls of his feet. His shoulders dip back and forth, back and forth, as if dancing to some awful song that only sick creatures like them can hear.

“Dumplin’,” by Craig Holt

Mar 30th, 2022 | By

I understand now how serious you were when you shouted, “I will not live with a pig!” It is also abundantly clear that my decision to bring home a four-hundred-pound Gloucester pig named Dumplin’ did not turn our sad two acres of weedy herb gardens and blighted squashes into a Farm.

“Madame Chanterelle’s Scourge, or, Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Foolish Consistency,” by Hermester Barrington

Mar 2nd, 2022 | By

It is a family legend that my great-great granduncle Ezekiel used to go on fishing trips with his close friend Ralph Waldo Emerson, at the end of which, Waldo—he preferred the name Waldo to Ralph, if you can believe it—inevitably dragged my relative to a local brothel (no one in my family believes this, but still).