e-revista EgoPHobia - ISSN 1584-6210
by Bill Tope Sally sat before the flickering television in the living room of her small apartment, breathlessly watching the Reverend Mudge rhapsodize about God’s “incredible love and care for us. He is,” said the Reverend, “not distant or disconnected; instead, He is intimately aware of our joys, sorrows and…” Sally blinked at the screen, […]
by Thomas Dierckx The 11-year-old boy hesitated across the street from the mailbox. It was black metal, with a red flap that would tell you if something had arrived. Sunday evenings they got back from the lake house in Wisconsin. His father would make a fire, his mother would start preparing dinner. The […]
by Zygmunt Nowak-Soliński Leonard Gimbal lives in a world where everyone talks a lot! His mother constantly squabbling. His father shouts. His half deaf brother Jordan gobbles his words. Sister Kate moans and screeches about her nails and her non-existent boyfriends. The parrot squawks in its cage every time Leonard comes into the front room. […]
And Reality Vanished I’m dreaming… Or maybe not:
by Jonathan Ferrini “Speedy Gas” was a small, two-pump, single-bay gas station tucked into a forgotten corner of San Francisco. It was not the kind of station visited by those chasing the lowest price per gallon or making a hurried dash into a minimart, but to its old customers and to those who still valued […]
by Kenneth M. Kapp There were torrential rains for several days. Flood warnings periodically flashed across the bottom of my PC when I was online. But eventually there was a break in the thunderstorm warnings and since I needed to clear my head – I was getting frustrated and could no longer think straight – […]
Journeys Individual beginnings are often small and seemingly insignificant –
Personal Hell The road to hell is paved with works-in-progress [Philip Roth] As a child Sisyphus once pushed pebbles up an ant hill and watched them roll down again.
La abator la abator, ne facem loc în sânge am crescut putreziți prin stafii mărunte și noi măruntaie, la abator ne sprijinim lipsa ne lipim ca țesutul adipos de mușchi de ceilalți mușchi: miroseai a sânge proaspăt când ți-am sărutat mâinile, la abator.
de Laura Galic — Cum dormi? — Tot trei ore per rotație. — Am întrebat cum, nu cât. — … Cu ochii închiși…