Seth Moran’s car slipped across the ice-slicked bridge, fourteenth of February. ‘Quiet Things’ live on the radio. An effusion of stars patterned the windshield, turning the blonde cap of Annabelle Belacqua–dreaming now, tears caught fresh on her cheeks–into an hoary nest of moonflowers. Seth wondered if she might freeze. Read the rest of this entry »
Archive for December, 2011|Monthly archive page
Jimmy Starkiller wasn’t always Jimmy Starkiller, we remembered suddenly one night in the suburbs of London over an antique Parcheesi set. TVs played a test match between English and Indian national teams. A real postcolonial dive, bartenders all slick brutes from Congo, patrons dressed to the nines in ivory. We’d just seen Attack the Block, blazed an absolute cannon in the Megaplex. Over white Russians we decided to remember every girl he ever ran off, fucked, or recorded with (celebrities excluded). We tipped our waiter to be on his toes. Read the rest of this entry »
You’ve seen her somewhere before, outside the café smoking like, Old Golds or some hand-rolled shit. Maybe she’s one of the chicks who kills herself crawling into jeans Thursday nights, or she might be the type to call her dad every morning and ask the scores of sports she don’t care about—it’s hard to say with those Back to Black Aviators swallowing her face.
Give her a second. Read the rest of this entry »