Johnny America
Picture of Issue Nine
Johnny America is a little print ’zine of fiction, humor, and other miscellany. It’s a web site too, freshened every-other Friday.
 
Our ninth issue is thirty-six pages of very short shorts, illustrations, and a truly strange comic strip which confuses and delights us. As with previous issues, it sports a silkscreen cover, hand-stitched thread binding, and smells vaguely of citrus. It’s available now for four bucks.
 


Sundays Like Sand

Sunlight helps itself to the room, collecting in clean linen pockets along the windowsill as if boasting. Sunday morning is unhurried sex with unbrushed teeth, grins over pancakes, and books by the window. Sunday evening is sneering disappointment. So much is lost during a day.

Jules is still asleep, one arm dangling over the mattress as if she were touching the surface of a pond on a country summer afternoon, just to ripple the sky. I make coffee while standing in my underwear. Feels like a plain white mug kind of day.

The house is clean by some small miracle. Jules even put an artful bowl of oranges in the middle of the table. I turn on some music, low so as not to wake her, something improvised. Mornings are no time for orchestration. Too bad we don’t get the newspaper anymore.

These are the moments I overlook so often, lived and loved in appropriate balance only from memory.

“Do you remember that one spring morning when we lived in the city? Before everything?” I’ll say this to Jules, five or six years on. “We were young and healthy, just the two of us and that tiny little place with no dishwasher.”

“Oh, it had a dishwasher,” she’ll say, “it was me.”

We’ll laugh, but it won’t be the kind of laughter that would feel perfect right now. Laughter without weight or weariness.

“I miss those days,” I’ll say. These Sundays like sand, gliding past fingers we can never squeeze tight enough, grains falling on creamy journal paper with real ink, writing letters that need a stamp and a shoebox. Jules will hug me. She always does, whether it’s desperate Friday or overbooked Saturday or slippery Sunday. “I sure miss them,” I’ll repeat.

I miss it already.

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