Winter 2010

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from the editor

Winter brings a penis-party extravaganza of satisfying proportions. Our all male writing cast gives us stories filled with lust and longing, drugged diaries, pornographic film sets, and boyhood memories. Thank you contributors. Thank you readers. You continue to be a party in my pants.

Yours,
Taylor Durden


credit: Sarah Ahmad

from the publisher

If you would like to see Thirst For Fire as a print magazine, please consider donating $7 or more. All such donors will receive a complimentary copy of our first printed issue (donors of less will be acknowledged within its pages). You may also sponsor an issue (a full-page ad) for $140.

Thanks,
P. H. Madore


contents flammable


Love: Hate Yann Rousselot

My ears are burning and I am torn between two polar opposites: a desire to lavish this girl with kisses and luxury; and a craving to cave her head in with a fire-extinguisher and then, with relish, shit in her purse, while the commuters around me scream and vomit in sheer terror.

Ota Benga Figures it Out Jarrid Deaton

The women came to him. So small. So cute. Hey, little guy. Do you like America? Do you like hot dogs?

The Barbeque Seth Siegel

The woman set down her glass and walked to the fenced-in dog no one cared about, at the side of the house. A small basset hound named Frisbee. The dog jumped at her petting affection. He had a sty in an eyelid that had developed into a disgusting red bead that made him hard to look at.

Most Unclean Tyler Knight

The girl is no longer struggling so the fun-factor is on the wane. I lace my hands around her neck and squeeze.

Mirror Lake Christian Rose

Lawnmowers buzzed in the distance and kids frolicked in the water off nearby docks. The sounds were unfamiliar, almost alien. Chris was used to night sounds here, shouting, laughing, the thumping stereo and crackle of a big fire.

The Shape of the Winter Wind Robb Todd

No fathers anywhere, just single mothers with two jobs, too much cocaine and holes in their diaphragms.

The World is Full of Men Thomas Kearnes

“Boy, all you do is sit in front of that computer,” says my father. I do not turn around, but I sense him at my shoulder. He wears the insulated motorcycle jacket and tinted helmet they buried him in two months ago.

Pharmaceutical Diary Matthew Dexter

Woke up in the front yard, sleepy, covered with yellow leaves. My ears and nose were frozen, but my body was quite warm.

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