- American Dream Serialization (Early Chapters)
- Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Maurice Stoker
- Introduction to Jim Chaffee's Studies in Mathematical Pornography by Tom Bradley
- Studies in Mathematical Pornography: American Dream Title Page by Jim Chaffee
- Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 1 by Jim Chaffee
- Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 2 by Jim Chaffee
- Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 3 by Jim Chaffee
- Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 4 by Jim Chaffee
- Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 5 by Jim Chaffee
- Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 6 by Jim Chaffee
- Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 7 by Jim Chaffee
- Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 8 by Jim Chaffee
- Studies in Mathematical Pornography: Chapter 9 by Jim Chaffee
- The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part V by Thor Garcia
- The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part IV by Thor Garcia
- The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 2 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
- The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part I by Thor Garcia
- The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part II by Thor Garcia
- The Apocalypse of St. Cleo, Part III by Thor Garcia
- The Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter Volume 1 Translation by W. C. Firebaugh
- DADDY KNOWS WORST: Clown Cowers as Father Flounders! by Thor Garcia
- RESURRECTON: Excerpt from Breakfast at Midnight by Louis Armand
- Review of The Volcker Virus (Donald Strauss) by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
- Little Red Light by Suvi Mahonen and Luke Waldrip
- TEXECUTION: Klown Konfab as Killer Kroaked! by Thor Garcia
- Miranda's Poop by Jimmy Grist
- Paul Fabulan by Kane X Faucher: Excerpt from the forthcoming Infinite Grey by Kane X Faucher
- Operation Scumbag by Thor Garcia
- Take-Out Dick by Holly Day
- Patience by Ward Webb
- The Moon Hides Behind a Cloud by Barrie Darke
- The Golden Limo of Slipback City by Ken Valenti
- Chapter from The Infinite Atrocity by Kane X. Faucher
- Support the Troops By Giving Them Posthumous Boners by Tom Bradley
- When Good Pistols Do Bad Things by Kurt Mueller
- Corporate Strategies by Bruce Douglas Reeves
- The Dead Sea by Kim Farleigh
- The Perfect Knot by Ernest Alanki
- Girlish by Bob Bartholomew
- The Little Ganges by Joshua Willey
- The Invisible World: René Magritte by Nick Bertelson
- Honk for Jesus by Mitchell Waldman
- Red's Dead by Eli Richardson
- The Memphis Showdown by Gabriel Ricard
- Someday Man by John Grochalski
- I Was a Teenage Rent-a-Frankenstein by Tom Bradley
- Only Love Can Break Your Heart by Fred Bubbers
- Believe in These Men by Adam Greenfield
- The Magnus Effect by Robert Edward Sullivan
- Performance Piece by Jim Chaffee
- Injustice for All by D. E. Fredd
- The Polysyllogistic Curse by Gary J. Shipley
- How It's Done by Anjoli Roy
- Ghost Dance by Connor Caddigan
- Two in a Van by Pavlo Kravchenko
- Uncreated Creatures by Connor Caddigan
- Invisible by Anjoli Roy
- One of Us by Sonia Ramos Rossi
- Storyteller by Alan McCormick
- Idolatry by Robert Smith
- P H I L E M A T O P H I L I A by Traci Chee
- They Do! by Al Po
- Full TEX Archive
By Anjoli Roy
She liked to think it was her body's way of rejecting him. Each month, those wretched cramps. They came in waves that started with the water fleeing the shore, laying traps of shells and sea creatures on the exposed underbelly of the ocean, then crashing down on the eager beauty-seekers. With those cramps, she washed him away. She liked to think that.
But still, she invited him back. Still let him part those waters, and deposit himself, sully her.
Sometimes, he would push his way inside her even when she was in the midst of those fits of pain and fury. And he would laugh during—chortle that it was like he was stabbing her. So much blood. He would have her on top of him, to feel it run down his pale hips. Her eyes, usually, were fixed on the wall, watching the silhouette of her seventeen-year-old body, rolling and thrusting in smooth arcs. She was proud of the way she looked.
She would think of his mother, just a wall away. Did the crazy woman who he would bark at to stay in her room do his washing? Would she notice the splotches on these sheets, the kind worn thin from use, whose flower-print design had long since faded behind recognizable stains?
He would leave her afterward, to go smoke up outside in the courtyard of the apartment building, or to buy a beer she was too young to drink from the deli down the street. Safely alone, she'd usually lay on the bed without a stitch of clothing on her, smoking a cigarette or a Black and Mild, whichever she had on her, until she heard his mother yelling, Stop smoking cigarettes, you, it's bad for all of us! She'd quickly snuff out the embers on the top of a soda bottle, watching the plastic blacken and crease. She would re-dress, feeling bad, right then, for them both: caged animals.
Once, though, she had gotten into the shower. He had opened the door and watched her from the frame, admiring her body, young and lithe, unaware. That had started him again, and she had allowed herself—still dripping, her hair slicked down her shivering back—to be carried back into the room. His pillow blotted the water from her hair. When finished, he left, as usual.
Forgetting her clothes, wilted on the bathmat, she lay on the mattress, without top sheet or blanket, and fiddled with her phone, thinking absentmindedly about how she would explain her absence to her father and his girlfriend, if they'd noticed that she'd been gone. "Not likely, though," she thought, smiling. She thought too of the story she'd tell her friends, who were still concerned, though she'd told them more than once not to be. "It's fun," she had told them, "being with an older guy."
She stretched her arms over her head; looked down at the limp tent of her belly, convex, and breathed in deeper to pull her belly button to her spine. She dozed.
The landline rang.
The only phone was in his room because he was the only one he wanted answering it. His mother called out once for him to get it. Then again. And then, she recognized too late, his mother was barging into the room. The girl, halfway to the door, dove by the closet in hopes of grabbing something—his basketball shorts, a tank top, anything—to shield the sight of her bare body, but she was too late. She stayed there, frozen, crouched down as if in a dream, and rounded her shoulders, wrapping her hands around her slim ankles. Staring at the floor, she thought, "I'm invisible. Invisible." The tears were hot on her cheeks.
The mother, seeing her, almost laughed, but caught herself. She took the phone out of its cradle and left.
© Anjoli Roy 2010