Showing posts from August, 2012


I wasn't always a supermodel.

That seems like an obvious statement, right? It's not like hordes of modeling scouts are scampering through maternity wards with lighting rigs and cameras evaluating infants for sexy potential. They're not shining flashlights up expectant mothers' vaginas, whispering about the "it factor." They have no file cabinets stuffed with detailed womb profiles. Too bad. If they did those things, my path would've been straightforward. I never would've never endured a moment of insecurity. I never would've felt a moment of sadness or doubt. I could've streamlined perfection from womb to tomb.

Most supermodels are discovered in their teens, or early in adulthood. Having breezed through puberty with grace, dignity, and the awe of their peers, they arrive (on the scene!) with angular cheek bones, big bright eyes, and slender legs. All without effort. They (not so miraculously) find themselves among other pretty people. There vult…


Dorothee Lang was born in winter and thinks that the invention of summer was as perfect idea. Her favourite supermodel is Wonder Woman. She blogs at life as a journey. (


An American Seeker by Kevin Catalano

Heidi returned from her job at the Watchung Bank and Loan that evening, glad to find that Paul had already left for work.  For the first time in their four-year relationship, Heidi began snooping through Paul’s things.  The cargo shorts Paul had worn while tending bar were balled up on the carpet next to his side of the bed.  They were dank with alcohol and sweat.  She turned the pockets inside-out and wads of cash fell to the floor, along with receipts and business cards.  Heidi sat cross-legged and sifted through the evidence, heart racing with expectation.  The business cards were not at all interesting (mainly because they belonged to men).  However, the receipts had suspicious things written on them.  Many had phone numbers and email addresses, though no names; one had drawings of stick figures with stick dicks going into stick vaginas; another, the one that really got Heidi’s attention, had the words American Psycho written in a female’s bubbly…


Tessa McSorley is artist and writer from Gainesville, FL who hoards sketchbooks. She has a screen printing studio in her garage, and her dog likes to sit under the table as she prints. She recommends Bisquick's Extra-Easy Pizza Recipe.  You can view more of her work at or


Look into eyes to examine skin surfaces, layers of epidermis arrayed like halls of mirrors.  As a child, their distortions produced delight marbled with queasiness.  Each one a different iteration – impossibly short and fat, impossibly lanky, collages of light chopped and screwed -- versions of hide that never felt like home anyway.
Now cameras flash, flatten possibilities to the power of zero, allow a single signature imperfection amongst a sea of bland pores, a way to prove you are really human and not airbrush, not photoshop, not some CGI tech’s pixelated wet dream. 
Food intake is monitored with sad exhalations and stimulant stares.  Dead eyes reflect sparkling seas from charter planes.  Brittleness is not nurtured, is disallowed, excepted from impact by constant motion. 
There are other possibilities that never make it from mind to lips, never cohere beyond vague state fair fun house recollections.  A series of choices one after another, dominoes clicking into place, collapsin…


Thank You For Thinking Of Me
A short story by Nikki Magennis

A girl walks in. She goes straight to the little stage, climbs up. Against the red curtains she's as pale as a larva.
'What's your name, love?'
'Hi. I'm Gemma. I'm sixteen.'
It's a nice, light, icing sugar voice. Her eyes are sky blue, as round as globes. I look at her chest, her lines, as she hovers.
I run down the tick list on my clipboard. Build. Hair. Skin.
'Tell me about yourself, Gemma.'
She talks about hanging out with her friends.
'I like to find funny things in second hand shops and make them into something new.'
She is picking at her own hands.
I used to draw. I have this sketch, in blue biro. Me and Elle and Trudy - Superstars. Cheeks like dents. Painted mouths, see-through clothes. We were perfect dolls. Really, we had no breasts or periods. Our cunts were dry. Trudy carried Vaseline in her purse. Once I borrowed it - put it on my lips and got a faint smell of her other…


How I Stay in Shape by Marilyn Monroe

--from the September 1952 issue of Pageant magazine

Now I spend at least ten minutes each morning
working out with small weights. I have never cared especially
for outdoor sports and have no desire to excel
at tennis, swimming, or golf. I'll leave those things 

to the men. Despite its great vogue in California
I'm personally opposed to a deep tan. 
By nature I suppose I have a languorous disposition.
I move my weights in circles until I'm tired. 

Now I have to worry about eating too much.
Before I take my morning shower
I start warming a cup of milk on the hot plate
I keep in my hotel room. When it's hot, I break

two raw eggs into the milk, whip them up with a fork,
and drink them while I'm dressing. I supplement this
with a multi-vitamin pill, and I doubt
any doctor could recommend a more nourishing breakfast.

Every night I stop at the market near my hotel
and pick up a steak, lamb chops, or some liver
which I broil in the electric oven in my roo…


The Diet by A.K. Mayhew
She tried. She used to try so hard to throw up. She couldn’t help it. This is the last time, she’d tell herself. My diet starts after this. After this box of chocolates. After this package of frozen waffles. After this giant bag of M&Ms. And she couldn’t help but eat it all, compulsively, stuffing her mouth piece after piece of chocolate, disgusted with herself but telling herself after that she would start her diet.
Her diet went like this:
·                                - No eating except when necessary.
That meant, if there was a family meal, she could eat. Because her parents could not find out. Breakfast could be one yogurt, since her parents usually noticed whether she ate breakfast or not. She knew it was wrong not to eat, but it was the only way she could ever be—or even feel—skinny. Once she tried to explain this to her boyfriend. Today is a good day, she said, as they walked through town. Why, he said. She felt hungry. She hadn’t eaten all day, for o…


Thin and Then
by Casey Hannan

I was in a church choir once, but I just whispered. There were other boys who could sing. I only sang in the car with my mother. She lied and told me my voice had a creepy beauty. She said it was like if spiders could sing. She circled one of her hands around my wrist and told me I would be a spider if I had to be anything else. I told her she would be a sewing needle and thread.

My mother said, "Thank you. I'd be useful in so many ways."

My mother's a supermodel. She has a new family who doesn't know she's a supermodel. Her husband is a librarian and her children know how to make their own clothes. My mother says it's important her new children have a skill. She says they don't have good faces yet. I say they look like models. My mother says there's a difference between models and supermodels. I ask about that difference and my mother won't tell me.

I've lost a lot of weight. My mother hasn't said anything abo…


When Kate Moss Thinks About Her Eyes and Bones by Chad Redden
“Ballerina, I need to answer the phone soon. It’s an interview about my eyes. A silly thing.” Kate Moss said to man on her kitchen floor beneath her, stretching. It was Michael Clark, the dancer. Kate Moss liked to hang out with dancers. He stretched himself on Kate Moss’s kitchen floor as she sat on the counter watching him. Michael Clark liked to stretch when he hung out with models. When she called him a ballerina, he didn’t mind and continued to stretch along the length of her kitchen floor.
He asked, “What about your eyes?”
“I guess I share a syndrome with Marilyn Monroe and Brigitte Bardot. Maybe not syndrome, maybe condition. Strabismus. Some say JFK had it too. A wandering eye. Do you notice it?” Kate took a drink of water.
Michael didn’t look up when he answered, “I have seen your eyes, but never noticed them wander off anywhere.”
“Ballerina, you are a charm.” Kate replied to Michael, then to her kitchen window, “Why don…