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**PRINT: Our 30th broadsheet, GIVES BIRTH TO MONSTERS, by Chicago-based Spencer Dew, is a tale of one man's small heartbreak, the backdrop to a contemporary landscape of well-meaning but ultimately shallow political activism, fractured communicative lines, and more ultimately enduring drives toward total inebriation. In classic Dew fashion, he'll have you laughing all the way to brink of the void. Dew is the author of the short-story collection Songs of Insurgency (2008). This issue also features excerpts from our David Foster Wallace collaborative mini-tribute by THE2NDHAND editor Todd Dills and Bellingham, Wash.-based Doug Milam, author of our 27th broadsheet

**WEB: SUICIDE SUE Suzanne Nielsen
FOR THE CHILD I WAS Paul McMahon
MIXTAPE: WESTERN BRIDGES Tobias Carroll
THE CONQUISTADOR GIRL Philip Brunetti
HOMECOMING Kevin O'Cuinn
AN UGLY THING-A-LING J.N. Otte
EL ENTRAR EL FUTURO Greggory Moore
WING & FLY: DFW, Feb. 21, 1962-Sept. 12, 2008 | Todd Dills
THE ANTIPURPOSE DRIVEN LIFE: SUMMER | Andrew Davis

SUICIDE SUE
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Suzanne Nielsen

Suzanne Nielsen writes from St. Paul, Minn., where she teaches writing at Metropolitan State University. Her poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in several literary journals. In addition to two poetry collections, So’ham Books published her flash-fiction collection, The Moon Behind the 8-Ball, in 2007.

Dirty Sue removed the stitches in her wrist with her teeth. That's how I remember her, and that's what she was doing when I last saw her alive in March of '72.

THE LEFT HAND: Soap, Lit

She sat next to me on the bus ride to Poor Profits, a head shop in Lowertown. I was doing my Saturday usual, a consignment drop-off of my handmade jewelry in exchange for a check. My beaded flower necklaces sold surprisingly well during the week. Dirty Sue was going in to score acid from Martin Opsal, who sat at the till on Saturdays in a cloud of Jasmine incense and one-hits. I usually arrived in time to balance the cash drawer before he closed the store at 4 p.m. A fifty-four dollar profit was a good day, meaning Martin frequently dug into his drug supply monies to keep the store afloat.

It was two days before St. Patrick's Day. St. Paul had hosted their annual parade three hours earlier, leaving the streets littered with soggy paper shamrocks and green vomit. Our stop was St. Peter and Seventh. Poor Profits was on the corner with an orange awning, not an anti-Irish gesture, simply Martin's favorite color. Dirty Sue had on orange hip huggers and an orange bandanna covering her dirty hair. At one time the rubber flip-flops she wore 365 days a year may have been orange. Now they were a dirty shade of pewter to match her feet.

The Finley twins, Jack and Jinx, two dropouts that lived in a shack behind the railroad tracks, hung their heads over St. Peter, swaying on the curb. Jinx slurred something our way, then threw his head back and laughed. "Suicide Sue," Jack said, and mimicked his brother's laughter. Jack started counting paper money, over fifty dollars that they split and pocketed. Dirty Sue traipsed over to the twins. Jack stood and peed on Dirty Sue's bare foot. I dug my hands in my pockets, squeezed the beaded necklaces and felt my throat fill with bile. I looked across the street in search of Martin's silhouette inside the store, but couldn't find it. Dirty Sue started tearing at the threads that held her wrist together. I ran across the street, flung open the door and screamed for Martin while the twins were pummeling Dirty Sue. Through the window of Poor Profits I saw her arms swinging and blood flying. Martin was nowhere to be found. The till was open and empty. An envelope sat on the counter with Dirty Sue's name on it. Inside were seven hits of windowpane and a paper shamrock that read, "One a day to make the pain go away, Martin." I slunk in the corner and listened to Dirty Sue swear her heart out until all was quiet. I struck a match and lit incense, slid the envelope into my bead pocket and held on tight.


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OUR FRIENDS AT The Left Hand make great soap, salves, balms and other natural hygiene-type stuff, in addition to publishing a zine and running a book swap, a performance series and more from their Tuscaloosa, AL, homebase. When they offered to make something for us, we jumped. We introduce THE2NDHAND soap, an olive oil soap with a quadruple dose of Bergamot, "for the readers we've sullied..." Price is $6, ppd.

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