by Ben Arzate Ira Rat is a fellow Iowan and a jack-of-all-trades in the arts. Here, I pick his brain to see what he’s all about. A quick disclaimer: I had a story published in his zine Fucked Up Stories to Tell in the Daytime and I’m very grateful he featured it. Ben Arzate: Let’s
We’ve had all we could take. They have relied on us for more years than we have left on God’s green earth. And we’re sick to death of their demands, the limitations it puts on our own existence. Because that’s all we’re doing now: merely existing. I can’t remember the last time my husband and
By Bob Freville If you’re new to the Motorist then that title might well bug you the fuck out, but fear not! We can still save your brain before it melts into a gnarly flan and you begin speaking in tongues. That’s right, you don’t need to be some boring troglodyte with an empty head
There are no presents under the tree. But there are cloves of garlic hanging in a cluster behind it. Mistletoe for the monsters. The tree is black and charred and bare, its pine needles like splinters from a spent heap of week-old firewood. The foyer floor is lined with possum traps and balls of barbed
