Matt Barrett
Fiction
Butt-Dials
“How are you?” Janice asks her brother, because what do you say to someone you didn’t choose to call except the same thing you say to everyone?
February 2026
Fiction
The Seafood Stand
Once, my father drove from New Jersey to California by siphoning gas from strangers’ cars, then sent his van off the Pacific Coast Highway by laying a brick on the accelerator. His mother almost died when she heard.
August 2025
Poetry
Farmhouse By The Highway
The hardest thing about death, my mother said, is when you stop remembering what drove you mad. Like the way my father typed one key at a time, or how he spit in his hands to smooth cowlicks in his hair.
November 2022
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