Andrea Kneeland



Joel says if a guy tells you three times in a row that you’re pretty it means all he wants to do is get into your pants.  I think of Marc, of straddling him in the passenger seat of his Prius, of listening to him whisper it to me over and over and over again.  You’re so fucking hot you’re so fucking sexy you’re so pretty. I told Marc that I thought I was falling in love with him.  My skirt was pulled up around my waist and my tits were hanging out and his hands were everywhere at once.  He called me half an hour after later to make sure I understood that he loved his girlfriend and that he wasn’t planning on leaving her, no matter what happened between us.  I am thinking about Marc when I tell Joel that the nicest thing anyone ever said to me was that I was funny.  Who told you that? Joel asks, but I can’t remember the guy’s name.  He knew that was what you wanted to hear, Joel says.  No, I say.  It didn’t matter, I say.  I’d already sucked his dick. Joel is quiet.  I scoot closer to him and he doesn’t move his body one way or the other.



This place pays me money to take off my clothes and dance on a pole inside a snowglobe.  The inside of the snowglobe is a wind machine filled with glitter.  The first time I got into the globe, I didn’t know any better.  I kept my eyes open.  I breathed with my mouth.  The glitter burrowed beneath my eyelids, rubbed up against my iris and cornea like tiny firecrackers.  I cried.  The gold flecks turned into blurry little stars, soft against the red and blue lights.  I inhaled quick like an animal.  Tiny, sharp cubes of foil caught against the fibers of my lungs.  I coughed.  The blue light masks cellulite and the red light masks acne, or maybe it’s the other way around, so the inside of the globe is always red and blue.  The pole is there for balance, since you have to keep your eyes shut to keep the glitter out.  I didn’t know this at the time.  The coughing made me inhale deeper and each time I inhaled more stars became tangled inside the cavities on either side of my heart.  I convulsed.  Between girls, there is a man who wipes the pole down with bleach, so the inside of the globe always smells like burning.  I got down on my hands and knees and let my hair hang in my face.  I tried to gyrate my body to the rhythm of the convulsions.  I didn’t know any better.


Andrea Kneeland has no plans for the future. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Quick Fiction, American Letters & Commentary, 580 Split, Caketrain and NOO Journal. She’s a web editor for Hobart and her first chapbook, Damage Control, is coming out as a part of the Fox Force Five chapbook collective, to be released by Paper Hero Press this month. You can send her jewelry at