ISFN Anthology 1

Upload bởi: hoangcamy

Mã tài liệu: 201319

Số trang: 104

Định dạng: pdf

Dung lượng file:

Chuyên mục: Văn hóa nghệ thuật

Đến trang tải tài liệu này

Info

- An eclectic collection of short stories, essays and poems from past, present and future, containing work by: Evelyn N. Alfred, Kevin Brown, Michael Campagnoli, Charlotte Cunningham-McEachin, Matthew Dexter, Emily Dickinson, Henri Frédéric Amiel, Noam Gagliardi, Rachael Z Ikins, Allen Kopp, Bruce Lader, John Lambremont Sr., Roger Pincus, Madame Roland, and Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder.
- The ISFN Anthology is an eclectic collection of thought-provoking short stories, poems and essays from past, present and up-and-coming writers. The anthology spans a wide range of themes and styles. From a short about hippies huffing nitrous to the poetry of Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder, the reader is bound to find a surprise at every turn of the page In our first volume, we present: Evelyn N. Alfred, Kevin Brown, Michael Campagnoli, Charlotte Cunningham-McEachin, Matthew Dexter, Emily Dickinson, Henri Frédéric Amiel, Noam Gagliardi, Rachael Z. Ikins, Allen Kopp, Bruce Lader, John Lambremont Sr., Roger Pincus, Madame Roland, and Sir Thomas Wyatt the Elder.
- I’m that guy who sells nitrous oxide at Phish concerts. My tank is pure and my heart is good. My alloons are larger and cheaper than most other vendors on tour. After the show the hippies come by and suck
some nitrous. The most enthusiastic buy about a dozen, walking away with balloons on a velvet leash, floating into the horizon like a low-level carnival employee. ! “How many you want?” I ask. Some of them are teenagers. Most have long hair. Except for the frat boys—we never had bratty college kids with iPhones at Grateful Dead shows. ! My buddy handles the tank, blows up the balloons. It takes about five seconds a piece. I take care of the money. We can sell hundreds in an hour. Sometimes the police come and empty our tank. ! You’ll see one person with a balloon…but if you keep walking you’ll run across three more, then dozens—finally hundreds near the epicenter of the action. It’s a good job and the kids respect me. ! Only thing that gets me is when parents bring their kids. I have a boy and little girl myself—children envy balloons. It’s easy to mistake a hippie for a clown. ! One July afternoon at Red Rocks, this woman walks up to us with two beautiful girls in a baby stroller. ! “You really want to do that in front of your kids?” I asked.
! “They’ve already seen the inside of the amphitheater.” She hooked a half dozen balloons to the handle of her carriage, sucking the first one. She finished the balloon and asked for six more. She attached them to the carriage and collapsed on the grass. Her friends laughed, fanning her back toward consciousness. I saw she was fine, and went back to emptying the tank as quickly as possible, watching for undercover officers and bicycle cops.
! My buddy was sweating and we had already made a few hundred bucks. Balloons were all around us; we couldn’t see from the giant bubble they created, bobbing up and down, up and down. Everywhere you looked there were fingers around balloons in front of faces, surrounding us and closing in like the red walls of the cavern.
! The money kept rolling in. The hiss of the helium tank made it sound like tree frogs were singing. It never stopped; the hissing went on for almost an hour. Someone tied dozens of balloons to the baby carriage and the lady on the grass was the center of attention. She sucked another balloon and went into a seizure. Everybody huddled around her, it was too late. By the time I looked, the babies were floating in their carriage like a magic carpet above the Colorado horizon toward the top of the Joshua tree. It was too late—the tree frogs will have to take care of them.