"A Vague and Frightening Instinct"
New fiction by Steve Gergley! Best of the Net! Better than the Net! Better than the best of the Net! Nominations and thoughts on nominations from Us, an Award Winning Literary Magazine! Won't you?
/ Now at AC: 2 Fictions by Steve Gergley
DRIVING IN CIRCLES
We drive circles around town all day and talk to each other on our cell phones about ravens. Our favorite species, the colors of their plumage, the shapes of their beaks, the particulars of their various habitats.
We have been doing this for many years. Our cell phones are very old. Mine perhaps was born just before the death of the last century, but I don’t know for sure. Nor do I remember how we found each other or when we exchanged phone numbers or what we did before this. But here we are, crisscrossing these gridded streets, stopping and starting at traffic lights, keeping our speedometers under thirty, and ceasing our ceaseless movement only when our identical SUVs require refueling.
We are careful to never drive on the same road at the same time. Though we are not breaking any laws, we wish to remain invisible. That’s why my SUV is the color of the clouds. Somewhere long ago I learned that white is the most popular car color in the country.
We have never met face to face. As a result, I don’t know what my conversational partner looks like, or how old he is. Nor do I know his name, his familial status, or where in the world he comes from. This is preferable. The exchange of scientific information, and the intellectual exploration of the various topics we have probed over the years is all that matters.
In my head there is a vague and frightening instinct that warns me to stay away from other people.
Read “Keys” and “Driving in Circles,” up now at Always Crashing.
A Brief Aside on Awards
Look, here’s the thing. Awards? Awards are silly. We all know, in our heart of hearts, that awards are a little silly, don’t we? Of course we do. And we, the editors and staff of Always Crashing, are allowed to say this, because we are officially an Award Winning Literary Magazine. But you know what’s great about awards & award nominations? They give us a chance to brag about work we’ve helped put out into the world that we deeply love. So with that in mind, here are
Always Crashing’s 2024 Best of the Net Nominations
In maybe 1987 or 1986, on a snowy winter evening, I ran an errand with my father. I can’t say now what the errand was, though I can recall the kinds of things we did: stopped in at the wake of the mother of his friend Bob, picked up unknown to me items from other people’s apartments and garages (weed? sometimes objects for projects and repairs?), ran out to get needed household items (he could sneak in a cigarette on the ride, then).
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Ok, hear now a lizard tail. Hear it in its silent music silent movie light shadow music hear tail. Impossibly: it moves it movies in and out of the opheliac mouths of people at a séance; it moves in a circle; its tail is woven & binding them & their little o mouths up & woven & binding to the tin-tiled ceiling;
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If I can touch language’s silent exchange I can touch interior. I can go to it.
Erin Sherry, “Imagine You Meet Harry Styles on a Busy Street”:
Imagine Harry Styles is a hobby and you can buy him in a kit at the craft store. You can paint his nails and braid his hair and dress him up in little outfits and do whatever you want with him. You can shake him like a Magic 8-Ball and he’ll tell you yes no maybe ask again. You can paint him like a model ship, tie rocks to his ankles before dropping him into the sink to see if he’ll float. You can massage him like lotion into your stupid red rash (it keeps coming back. It’s peeking out of your shirt collar now) and he’ll soothe you from the outside in. You can shred him into thread and crochet him into a warm pair of gloves. You can wear the gloves like a second skin. Imagine you shrink Harry Styles down into the size of a wrinkled golden raison and carry him around in your shirt pocket. He beats his tiny fists against your breast and if you plug your ears to the sounds of his crying out for freedom it could almost be a heartbeat. You can furnish a fish tank with plastic trees and marbles and plop Harry Styles inside, teach him to do backflips in the water by tapping your fingers on the glass and rationing his fish flakes. You can imagine all this and he’ll make it happen and he won’t be able to hurt you or tell you no. He’ll just have to do it.
Adam McOmber, “The Secret Gospel of Mark”:
The gospel is discovered in a library at the Monastery of Marsaba. A letter from Clement of Alexandria to an otherwise unknown Theodorus claims to quote from an expanded Gospel of Mark. Here, Mark describes how Jesus raises a wealthy young man from the dead in the village of Bethany. The young man falls in love. “And after six days, Jesus told him what to do, and in the evening the youth came to Him, wearing only a linen cloth over his naked body. And he remained that night with Jesus.” The phrase “naked man with naked man” is used. And there are new teachings in the gospel. Jesus says there are sounds that exist at the borders of the universe. They are not internal to the universe. Instead, they are reminders of what came before. He says all things must be experienced in order to transcend. He takes the dead young man walking in the shade of the olive groves. He holds his hand and kisses him. We imagine the youth’s hand is cold. Jesus says every dream is a form of lacking. And we can never go behind any curtain. That is the transcendental absolute. The young man asks a question. His voice is raw and new because he has been in the earth.
could be anyone calling
but the dead—and yet everyone kept calling
don’t go.
not yet.
come back.
Zach Savich, “Emergencies in a Meditation”:
I stapled the face. One staple per tooth. We’re already embedded. The surveillance cameras assume us. The most expensive massage activates no traumatic healing, no flashbacks, no waterfalls, no loading docks. I could move the outfielders in and they’d retain dimension (tiny) or move the catcher out (huge). Lucas, watch out! Lotions and lotions of rare ions make up for something, a dance marathon on a very steep slope, hold on to tendrils, to pigs and golf clubs clambering at gravel.
Nate Hoil, "Decoding the Code.":
Why is every mad scientist incredibly old?
I’m almost 30.
Botox stretches my face
around the power-source of my evil genius.
(I’m too drunk to show you how powerful my brain is.)Everything is stupid
when you’re as fucking smart as me!
I’m wearing a hat, but the hat is too small.
David Schurman Wallace, “Piranesi”:
“Ask a warm stone what it loves,
and it will name the sun.Some mornings it’s enough
to see clustered pines burstfrom loam, as their flipped reflections dive
into my dark surface. Hidingturtles grouped in my silt know this, and stray
children wading in the tall grasses of my skirts: I am madeand unmade by clouds spilling themselves
or withholding. And there’s peace in my swellingand shrinking face, peace even
when summer storms greedily shunt my excesses”
Barrett White, “Perfect Poems”:
Today’s Soundtrack
Get in, loser, we’re listening to Rob Zombie singing about how much he loves the car from The Munsters.