Tide

Written by Henry Alley

I woke up in a quad in Port Townsend, Washington, a small “Victorian seaport” on the Olympic peninsula. I was alone and in my underwear. My legs were stretched out in front of me, still sun-tanned from my days of painting the duplex I lived in in Seattle, and below I saw ace bandages on each of my ankles. Then I smelled beer. I pulled the bandages off and saw that the insteps, each of them, were slightly swollen from being wrapped all night. I moved over to the left side of the bed, usually unknown territory for me, and smelled cigarettes too, and knew someone must have slept with me. I recalled now a massive hairy chest and a rippled back, as my bare feet hit the floor, but this euphoric recall was immediately followed by a memory of buying a muscular clerical-looking type a Bud at a gay Seattle bar called The Prison and getting one myself. There was a smell of leather and the sound of chains. Also the sound of Pine Street traffic rushing past, even at the a.m. hour. I had relapsed.

Read more

As we begin to get cozy in our new digital space, we'll be moving things around sometimes, taking things away, and in the process, confusing you. We apologize in advance. We're also in the process of adding our years of archived literature to the new database. If you don't see your work online now, don't worry! It'll be online again soon.