Edited by Susquehanna University’s Literary Magazine Publishing & Editing Practicum, 2019
Produced by seven secret Susquehanna agents in the Literary Journalism Publishing and Editing Practicum class with the help of BarrelHouse editor Dave Housley. We have worked together nonstop to get this issue up and out in just seven weeks. How we did it will remain our secret.
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The strum of Neil’s opening lines would usually blast forth around 2:45am, a shout into the otherwise quiet night, bouncing off the steeple of St George’s Presbyterian Church and the graveyard that stretched past the church grounds. That was where Freddy first saw the shadows, running through the moonlight. They always came at night. Always late. Silhouettes, outlines. They seemed young.
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The man, our new neighbor Stu, had a head of close-cropped curls and a twitchy, sniffly nose which
gave him the air of a heavy cocaine user, which he was. Curls are one of my personal weaknesses and
the cocaine habit—verified with a glance at his chalky coffee table when I popped over with a piece of
his mis-delivered mail—ignited my lust for the party girl I never was. Those two factors, combined
with a lifetime of indecision and a new spark of fluttery worry at having bought a house with a man
who once yelled, “Thar she blows,” during sex, helped convince me, sometime in the second week of
living in our new home, to sleep with Stu.
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Well it turned out classically
my desire was to be desired, and it wasn’t like I hadn’t read
any of that stuff, I mean I’d read a bit. But I made no
connection between that and
me
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