HOME | BROADSHEETS | ARCHIVE | AUDIO | ITINERARIES | MIXTAPE | EVENTS | FAQ | RSS | LINKS
Advertise | Newsletter | About/Subscribe | Submissions | Art Walk | Books | THE2NDHAND Writers Fund

**PRINT: A LITTLE MONEY DOWN, by Doug Milam, is No. 27 in our broadsheet series and marks our 8th anniversary. Milam's a frequent contributor and wizard of experimentally styled prose that still burns bright around the campire -- this issue comes with a new design, an excerpt from Susannah Felts' first novel, and more.

**WEB: MEDUSA Kate Duva
INTRUDER Sean Ruane
TRAIN Senesequore
THE ANTIPURPOSE DRIVEN LIFE: BILLY, I | Andrew Davis
WITHOUT GRACE, AMEN Rebekah Lyn Cowell
WING AND FLY: INTERVIEW WITH DOUG MILAM | Todd Dills
HOROSCOPE FOR THE MORNING AFTER Nick Ostdick
THIS WILL GO DOWN ON YOUR PERMANENT RECORD Pitchfork Battalion (Self, Dills, Tucker)

MEDUSA
---
Kate Duva

Hi. I'm Riri LeClaire. I'm going to college soon, but I'd rather drive a taxi or open a laundromat called Bubbles. I gave up on taxis because I'm a lady and it's a jungle out there; on the laundromat, because I'm lazy, and I don't like math.

The world is aslumber, but I have a flaming bladder infection. Too much sex! God, are you punishing me?

THIS WILL GO DOWN ON YOUR PERMANENT RECORD

Last time I went to church was Easter, 1989, with my drunkard grandparents. Afterwards they took me to Pat's country club for brunch. I received a squeaky duckling and ate melon balls.

I once stumbled into a Roman taxi in the dead of night. My girlfriend and I had nowhere to be, and we faked moans as the driver unbuttoned us.

I once sat and spat chicken bones in the grass as an old woman dragged her dog's rear end along a lane. I did nothing to defend the yorkie.

Is it for these sins that bacteria are eating me alive?

The taxi driver gave me mini tissues when I expressed the need to urinate. Lemon vodka pee flooded the cobblestone cracks.

My latest squeeze supplies me with tissues. He aims to be a gentleman. He wants to bring me to his birthplace, Manfredonia, the kind of town where women churn butter. He says I'm intelligent, and beautiful.

I'm just a girl who masturbates with balled-up t-shirts and eats her boogers and serenades pigeons with tunes by Barry White. I'm not even sure whether Kosovo is a city or a country. I do not have cerebral palsy, although I have been told that I appear to when I laugh. I am not a glamour girl.

I do donate blood, but not to help humankind. I do it for fun. I like to squeeze the stress ball and don my bandage like a warrior.

If you're ever depressed, try donating. But don't even think about it if you've had sex with a man who's had sex with another man since 1977, or if you've lived in Cameroon.

All my friends back home were girls, virgins from broken families who wore ballooning t-shirts in the swimming pool. We never drank, but we listened compulsively to Ol' Dirty Bastard.

Once we scored an abandoned shopping cart. We ran Donna down the street as she crouched inside, blowing a whistle and whirling a broken lightbulb in the air. The cart crashed and she tumbled out, still grinning.

It's 4 a.m., and only the mutant birds are singing. In the glorious light of morning, I'll find a potion to kill my bacteria. I will feel sorry to crash their wonderful party.

My parents used to party, and they found a guest named Chuckie swirling red feathers over the crib. This must have been my christening.

As a child, I rode the family dog like a horse. I put my kitten in a coffee can and sent her spinning round the record player. I called my enemies penis hair. My vision was a Medusa of penises.

SCHAUMBURG, ILLINOIS: A TRAVELER'S TALE

BOOKS BY THE2NDHAND CONTRIBUTORS at Amazon

Google




040208