You play marbles with aluminum marbles. Don’t ask me where your parents found those awesome marbles, just roll with it. So you play with your sibling all the time. Marbles day and night. You have perfected the flick and know about topspin and how far the aluminum marbles will bounce when shot at another— you’re […]
Tag Archives: Zebulon Huset
Susan in the Woods by Zebulon Huset
She wore a black velvet shirt, the kind that shows you where you’ve been last and is only still cool in places like Nebraska or Chechnya maybe, though it might pass as kitsch today. Almost ten years ago, now, they found her in the woods behind the school as the leaves turned to rust and […]
Avoir du Chien By Zebulon Huset
They found her, corset strapped so tight it was cut off, feet bound into balls, vomit crusting her lips. No foul play was the ruling. Zebulon Huset is a teacher, writer and editor in San Diego. He is obsessed with the netherland between flash fiction and prose poetry, as well as the haiku’s ‘murican brother […]
Minneapolis Vignettes by Zebulon Huset
The Bar The last sliver of ice struggles vailiantly to remain in existence in an abaondoned glass, chasin the little red straw. On the bar by toothpicks, limes and olives, there are coasters with the 1980’s Budweiser logo. Counting Crows on the jukebox, cracked red vinyl barstools and dim lighting to hide the dust that’s […]