The Anti-Literary Magazine

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JAKE

love letter to the moon or maybe my adderall prescription or maybe something else entirely

love letter to the moon or maybe my adderall prescription or maybe something else entirely

it’s so hard to care for something as a hobby.

Phone Calls

Phone Calls

We circle Scott Lake three times a day, starting at the edge and working inward and dumb Jesse duct taped the radio button so it only plays one station, 101.5 FM CLASSIC.

Coming Home

Coming Home

Everyone is always ripped open here–it must be something in the air.

A beer bottle in front of a blurry skyline, the lights of the horizon faded to fuzzy dots.

Waiting For The Dealer

Twenty years ago, I was a young boy who imagined himself to be a future rock star.

A woman standing outside holding her phone with both hands to text with her thumbs. Her face is outside of the frame.

bitch

He told himself that he was disgusted by his behavior and couldn't believe that he was able to stoop so low.

A heavy traffic jam at night, the road illuminated by the brake lights of cars disppearing into the horizon.

Evacuation

One could never be sure that the worst wouldn’t happen again.

A casual office party, with two groups of people standing and talking in front of a low lit table, scattered drinks around.

Wit's End

Now we come to the present day: the age of the prefabricated punchline.