The Divorced Man

The divorced man, recovering from the social inadequacy that was a product of his recently dissolved marriage, attended an event for single lovers of literature at an Upper West Side bookstore. The gathering, organized by the latest dating app, took place in a reserved section of the shop’s second floor, in a wide row splitting memoir from fiction, where the hosts from the hot-or-not app had set up tables with finger foods and cheap wine.

First to arrive, the divorced man poured himself a plastic cup of dry white to avoid tooth stains and browsed the Zs on the last fiction shelf. He picked out a Chilean writer he’d been meaning to read and the fluorescent light reflecting off the paperback’s glossy cover made him uneasy. The place was too damn bright, surely enough to illuminate the asymmetrical tendencies of his face: the tip of a slender nose leaning left, a right ear higher than the other on the side of his head, and stubble growing only on one cheek he’d forgotten to shave before his morning commute. He knew, though, this was his best shot at landing a date in this isolating city, this island that imposed its identity on and induced a debilitating loneliness in the most unsuspecting residents.

Even in a dimly lit Brooklyn dive bar where his physical flaws wouldn’t be accentuated, the divorced man wouldn't know what to say to a cute girl confident enough to catch his attention with her fuck-me eyes. They couldn’t be meant for him—maybe she was squinting?

It was excruciatingly difficult for the divorced man to reconcile his physical desires with his decision to vacate that oath-sworn relationship. After all, a divorced body was nothing else but neglected and in dire need of affection.

The divorced man hadn’t been inside a woman in months, not since he’d tried to outrun the heartbreak of his failed union by fleeing the nation’s capital. Best-case scenario: literary conversation would be the sexual catalyst he needed it to be. At the very least, he wanted simply to feel noticed. To feel a flirtatious hand squeeze his arm, hear the sincerity of a woman’s laugh at his sorry jokes.

He read and re-read the book’s first page, but the arrival of other dating-app users prevented him from retaining any of the minimalist prose. He was facing the staircase, feigning interest in the book and nonchalance toward the women, heartbeat accelerating each time heels clicked on the hollow steps.

When men reached the top stair they would nod at the divorced man, not in solidarity, but as if to communicate their status as competitors. We are here for the same reason, their looks said, therefore we cannot be friends. They would puff out their chests and strut over to a single lady, cups filled and ready for a practiced toast to their favorite dead white writers. It looked effortless, like they picked up more women than books at these events, an easy lay for every hardcover lining the walls of their hip lofts.

The divorced man could hardly afford to fill his one flimsy bookcase, let alone the drafty room he rented from his Dominican landlady-slash-roommate in Washington Heights. She was a sweet woman with kids his age and had been married once too, but he hadn’t confided in her—or in anyone else—the emotional pain of losing his best friend and the person in the world he most loved.

The room was crowding and his wine drying up, so the divorced man poured himself another cup at the table, where a woman he hadn’t seen asked his name. She was wearing flats and thick-rimmed glasses, blouse tucked into a skirt that flowed from her hips to her ankles, a pen holding her dark hair in place.

Underneath HI! MY NAME IS, the woman wrote the divorced man’s name in cursive with a smiley face and pasted the tag on his shirt, smoothing it out over his chest. They made small talk while standing next to shelves of writers who disclosed every dirty detail of their lives; however, he had no intention of dropping the D word to a woman who lived in a city where marrying as young as he had was taboo.

While the woman shared tales of learning to hang with New Yorkers, the divorced man noticed how she talked with her hands and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and curled her lips when she laughed. He wanted to take her in an unoccupied aisle of the shop, between the pages of love stories, to lift the back of her skirt and pull aside her panties.

Upon her request, he recounted silly adventures like getting lost in Queens, ending up in the Bronx after falling asleep on the express train, and having a bagel so good he chewed it slowly to prolong the deliciousness. The woman took hold of his bicep, a look of surprise on her geometrically proportionate face, when she realized she’d had the same artisan lox bagel with a thick layer of cream cheese at the same Park Slope deli and had also eaten it slowly.

Two refills later and buzzed, they found themselves half-naked in the divorced man’s apartment, on the bed he’d inherited from the previous tenant, their bodies entwined beneath the covers.

                              —What’s wrong? the woman said.

She’d stopped kissing him.

                             —It’s been a while.

                             —Then this shouldn’t be a problem.

                             —I guess you have a point.

                             —Did I do something wrong?

                             —No! No, you’re perfect.

He lay beside her and slipped his hands under his head and closed his eyes and listened for a moment to the honks of Broadway taxis filtering in with the fall breeze through the open window.

                             —But you’re not my wife, the divorced man said.


Written by: Eric Zurita
Photograph by: Anthony Delanoix

Stanley Cupid's Eulogy & Coda

Varying Degrees of Murder

On a rainy-day Tuesday I murdered Cupid. It was an accident of course. No amount of spit-in-my-face romance would drive me to murder the entire industrial complex of love. I loved love. Love made singing birds, giggling babies, and the most honest smiles ever smiled.

Also, there was no body. It had vanished like a sock after a dryer run. Poof.

“Manslaughter,” I sighed. “A case of murder-lite. At most.”

“I’m not a lawyer,” said Van, “but I don’t think there are degrees of murder.”

“Yes, there are, you idiot. There are literally degrees of murder. Second degree murder. First degree. Etc.”

That was Joan Newman. I was in love with her, though it was a new love, the age of which was approximately three, call it...eh...four hours.

“No body,” I said.

“True,” said Van. He struck a thinking man’s pose. “A guilty verdict might be tough to…”

“Should we, like, do something for him?” she interrupted. “Some sort of eulogy? I mean, he was a man…”

“Was he?” I asked Joan.

We both looked at Van.

“What?” he said, like an idiot. Like Van. Like the oblivious assistant: King of the Fuckboys.

How We Got Here

My path to murd… err… manslaughter, began with a harmless crush. A crush that would have made Aphrodite proud. One of those attractions that, even if only for a moment, makes you believe we are more than walking sticks of DNA, bumping and fucking our way to the grave.

I worked at a place called “Charlie’s Books” which was a goddamn awful place to work. Don’t let the name fool you - there were dozens of them. They gave 5 Ways to be Wealthy: Get Rich Bitch (Or Your Money Back) prime real estate and buried Nabokov in the back with Joyce and Fitzy. We had to wear name-tags, and mine said Jonah. That’s my name, BTW. There was also a place to write your favorite book on the name-tag, and so I wrote Moby Dick.

“I love that book,” a nice older woman said to me that very same day, the first day of the name-tag.

“I’ve never read it.”

“So why did you write it on your name-tag?”

I shrugged. “Seemed like low-hanging fruit.”

She wandered off, and I felt pretty bad. I don’t think she got it. People say I have issues with my tone, young man.

I got written up by the manager (on my first fucking day!), so I had to change my favorite book to How to Win Friends and Influence People because fuck you, Charlie. And your books.

Anyway, I fell in love with Joan Newman because she was a writer, and wore black frame glasses, and white high-top Converse below a dress and a sweater. Also because I fall in love easily. I tell people that I’m a romantic, which is different than actually being a romantic, but I’m one of those too. My brothers call me a pussy, which is just not cool, bros.

Joan was a pretty great writer on a book tour. She hailed from the west coast and was trudging her way across the Great Plains via a host of Holiday Inn Expresses, dodging Oklahoma’s imperfect smiles and aggressively Christian billboards while, she felt, her artistic integrity lit itself on fire. She found herself bible-belt sequestered, stuck in the rain.

She read from her book, Woman in the Mirror: My Decade of Dancing Like Beyonce and Being a Bad Bitch, and complained that she couldn’t buy wine at the grocery. We told her it was because Jesus didn’t want her getting too drunk, but she was still pissed. Nobody told Joan Newman what to do. Not even Jesus. Especially not Jesus.

Love’s a Battlefield w/ Crossbows

Joan Newman, damply fabulous under a red and white umbrella, was cutting through an alley to cut some time. It was late, near midnight. Post book-reading. Her white Converse were muddied but gaining character by the step.

I wasn’t following her, so much as walking a respectful distance behind in the same direction. Could I have walked with her? Sure! Did I? Hahahah...

Either way, she wasn’t being safe. The neighborhood gentrification had set and dried (which was kind of shitty, and also kind of historically inevitable), but nitrogenated cold-coffee shops or not, there were always pockets of danger in the witching hour. We should have been in an Uber. One of the cheap ones.

Even though I was on high alert, it was still pretty surprising when a Hobbit-like figure slide into the alleyway behind Joan. Most appearances are pretty surprising in dark alleyways around midnight, I suppose. Per my nature, I immediately thought, Nothing good can come of this. Fuck.

I had no idea where he’d come from. His appearance was some kind of magic trick. He was very short and round, with hair that was long but afraid of the crown of his head. The little fat man shined by the light of the lone streetlamp. He was also struggling to carry something, dragging it behind him like a third leg.

Right around the time the short-round lifted the third leg up to his arm, it struck me that life is sometimes stranger than fiction. That the world will never make sense. That we are all flawed beings, fucked and beautiful, and oh my god is that a crossbow?!?!

Yes. Yes it was.

Something came over me. It was love. Not a boner, but courage. Courage! Unheeded! So I squawked my battle cry into the night, and ran at him. I thought he would, you know, stop whatever it was that he was doing. Don’t criminals say, “Fuck it,” and bail when some good citizen intervenes?

But the little troll didn’t bail. Instead, he spun around and pointed the crossbow at me. I zigged and zagged like I was playing capture the flag at motherfucking summer camp. (Falls Creek Runner-Up, 1995 & 1996. Screw you, Barry “Beaver” Bevinson. You didn’t deserve it.) Unfortunately, I got to him quicker than planned. Having nothing better to do, and not having an arrow in my gut, I just...kept going. I didn’t so much tackle as run into him. We both tumbled into the side of some dumpsters.

The Recycle one knocked me unconscious.

Stanley Cupid’s Eulogy & Coda

When I woke, Stanley Cupid was gone and Van, his assistant, had appeared. Van said that Stanley had been his name, and Cupid his title. He said that Stanley Cupid was the one true Cupid, and that his crossbow was not only harmless, but actually, “more important than the wheel and fire combined.”

I found that claim dubious at best.

Van said without Cupid, without the crossbow, there would be no love.

“It’s a partner system,” Van said. He held up a small black address book. “This,” he said, “this is the little black book of love. It tells us who our targets are.”

“And then?” Joan asked.

The rain had stopped, and so the three of us gathered around the death dumpster of the hobbit. Van gave both the eulogy and some much-needed background info on Stanley Cupid.

“It is with great regret,” he began, head bowed, holding back tears, “that I say goodbye to the only boss I’ve ever known. Stan, you were a good matchmaker. The best. You shot the world with your arrows of love. You shot children and old people. Penguins. Swans. Some Bald Eagles, I think. Sometimes you would shoot, like, ten people a day.”

I looked at Joan Newman who was, like, what the flying fuck is going on? But then she smiled at me and...I dunno...we were a team.

“I told you who to shoot,” Van continued with cracking voice. “The names appeared, dispatched from Le Factory del Amore. I’ve never been to Texas, but I’ve heard it’s there.”

Van sneezed, and wiped his teary eyes. I felt bad for him. Whoever this Stanley Cupid was or wasn’t, he meant something to someone. After it’s all said and done, I hope someone sneezes and wipes teary eyes for me.

“Rest in peace, Stan the man,” he finished.

We sat there in that humid post-rain silence. The halo of dawn peeked from the east, and with it came a Wednesday.

“What’s next?” Joan Newman asked.

“Well,” Van said, “I don’t know. I guess we go to the factory. They’ll tell us what to do.”

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“Somewhere in Texas,” Van replied. “Down by the border. They make tortillas there. And love. Tortillas and love.”

“Good luck,” Joan scoffed.

“Oh, well, you have to come with us,” Van said.

“Us?” I said.

“Fuck that,” she said. “Topeka awaits me.”

“If you don’t,” Van said, pointing at me, “then he dies.”

“What???” I yelled.

Van scratched his head, and with trademark confusion said:

“Well...it’s possible. I think. I think it’s possible.”

It’s possible our quest will continue with…

Eros Wants Revenge

Written by: Logan Theissen

Photograph by: Daniel Vidal

1:1 - Sam Chow

Interviewed by Logan Theissen

Over the next few weeks, 1:1000 will take you behind the scenes with our core writing and editorial team. We'll show you more about what makes these writers tick (or maybe twitch).

In our latest interview, Logan Theissen talks with Sam Chow. Pardon me, the indefatigable Sam Chow. Writer of excellent stories such as "Tithonous" and "After The Storm." Lover of Murakami, and Raymond Carver. Master of law. Simply put, a Renaissance man for the ages.

1:1000: What are you currently reading?

SAM CHOW: I'm just finishing up The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. I wasn't a huge fan of The Secret History, which was her super popular novel from 1992. But I really liked her writing style and after she won the Pulitzer, I decided to give her new book a chance. I'm really glad I did, because so far it's fantastic. It's really a perfect amalgamation of her writing, her seemingly unlimited knowledge of the art world, and classic mystery - the mystery element being the big draw for me.

1:1000: Tell me about your first experience writing or being a writer. How old were you? What were the circumstances?

SC: I've always written, we all have. In school, for work, I usually only ever wrote when it was demanded of from me. Most of my early writing attempts were stop-and-go, and I never really put together a full piece. My first and only full piece prior to 1:1000 was a short story I wrote out of sheer boredom. I was at work - I was a host at my parent's restaurant - it was spring break in Myrtle Beach, and lunch rush had just ended. Everyone was out having fun, and I was miserable, bored out of my mind. And in my misery, I wrote my first ever short story, "The All-American Grill."  I have no idea where that short story is now, lost in digital purgatory on one of my old laptops, but I distinctly recall my sense of accomplishment for having written my first story. Who knew that boredom could be such a creative muse. I think I was sixteen, maybe seventeen, at the time.

1:1000: What were some books and authors that you liked when you were younger? Do you still read them?

SC: Like a lot of growing boys (and girls), The Catcher in the Rye stands out as one of the first books that ever left a lasting impression on me. Since reading it for the first time, I've gone back to it several more times and it still reads brand new to me. I also read my first Haruki Murakami book when I was in high school, and I still eagerly wait for his new books to come out in the States, though I was a little disappointed in 1Q84. Another book that really stands out is The World According to Garp, which was a book introduced to me by my high school history teacher. I think that was the first book that made me realize how eye-opening literature could be and that there was a world outside of the school curriculum. It's one of the few books I've read more than twice.

1:1000: Writers love to talk about habit. What is your writing habit like? Daily? Morning or night? That sort of thing.

SC: I wish I had a writing habit, it would make scheduling it into my day a lot easier. Writing is incredibly sporadic for me, and I tend to write during lulls throughout the day. A little in the morning, maybe some at lunch, or when I just need a break. Having a full-time job that demands a lot of my time makes my writing "routine" incredibly difficult to maintain, which is why I haven't been able to contribute as much as I would like in recent months. But I'm not the type of writer that can set aside a block of time to write.

1:1000: Do you have a particular genre or type of reading and writing that you like? Do you find that going outside of that genre (fiction to non-fiction, etc.) can help influence your writing? For example, when writing a piece of fiction, do you usually read other pieces of fiction in the same vein? Non-fiction? Where do some of your everyday influences in writing come from?

SC: I love reading everything. Classics like Frankenstein and Huckleberry Finn, non-fiction like Homage to Catalonia, science fiction like Kazuo Ishiguro and Ray Bradbury, westerns like Cormac McCarthy, magical realism, short stories...I could go on. I don't really prefer one over the other. As far as writing, I try to explore genres, but really enjoy writing mystery-esque stories (e.g. "The Outer Borough"). My writing does tend to be influenced by what I am reading at that moment, so I try and go back to my regular fixtures for inspiration if I need it. My go-to muses are usually The Great Gatsby and Hemingway and Raymond Carver's short stories. Though, I love flipping through whatever I have available to me too, just thumbing through and reading random passages from a book without context is a great exercise for writing. And of course I find most of my influence from the brilliant photographers that have lent their talents to 1:1000.

1:1000: How did you get started with 1:1000?

SC: Well, my buddy and fellow writer, Mark Killian, is always coming up with kooky ideas. I remember him bouncing the idea of what would become 1:1000 several years before its actual inception. It's great working with Mark because he has a mind for these projects that really force you to exercise your creative muscles. It's really given me an incredible opportunity to work with an amazing collective of writers and like-minds.

1:1000: I'm pretty new to flash fiction. What do you think of it? Do you like it more or less than more long-form writing?

SC: I'm not sure I am capable of long-form writing, given my sporadic writing habit. I would love to write a novel or something at some point, but flash fiction is the perfect medium for me at this particular stage in my life. It's a creative outlet that I crave and I get to work with a group of peers that help me improve as a writer.

1:1000: How do movies/film and music influence your writing? Do you listen to music when you write?

SC: I love music, but I can't listen to music when I write. It's too distracting, my mind tends to wander as it is. When I listen to music, it's because I want to listen to music. Movies, on the other hand, are an endless source inspiration. In fact, I think a lot of my writing is dictated by how it would appear on the big screen. What would this scene look like if it was happening in front of me? I visualize a lot, and it's usually in movie-form.

1:1000: Some people think this is an unanswerable question, but I think it's a good one, so I'm going to finish on it. Why do you write?

SC: Writing has always been in the background for me, it's always been there, even if not always on the forefront. As I kid, I was a huge doodler...still am to be honest. No matter what I'm doing, if I have a pen and paper in front of me, I'm compelled to draw something. And I think it was because I am constantly looking for a creative outlet. 1:1000 is perfect, it's like doodling, but with words.