Now That's What I Call Alternative Literature

volume 1
volume 2

'Heather' by Garrett Wenger

A wire-haired girl
in ninth grade geometry
places delicately onto my desk
a paper triangle, her terms
sweating purple, points soaked in hormones and
what may have been nail polish,
or blood.
She is giggling with
her friend who is deaf & beautiful.
She asks me if I like her
I tell her it smells like blue skittles.

We are riding in
the back of her parents’ Escort.
She is three years older than me.
Her hair is the almost-brown
of tree bark, hidden behind
a stark yellow façade.
Our fears are pushed back
and forth on the seat between us,
the terror of her candy fingers
advancing with every crook
in the road, my palms sweating
into the velvety upholstery.
She is an artist.
I tell her I used to draw
dragons, too.

We are left at a highway motel with
an attached bar, and bowling. Somewhere
behind a locked door, a man
of age is parting blossoms
of his own, discovering
kink and infidelity.

The bowling alley is empty
even of drunks.
Heather is flushed
and sighing, her ambidexterity
guttering every frame.
This was the semester
I would learn
Thirty-one digits of pi.


Garrett Wenger was last witnessed leading a life of neurotic tendencies and radical delusions in Kalamazoo, Michigan. He is suspected to have fallen into a pattern of perpetual studenthood and, if seen, should be approached with great caution. Any information concerning his current whereabouts may be directed to