Phase: I Did I lie about the boy tied to the garden shed? Arms stretched out like he was the flat line of a highway or the son of god, or did I lie when I said he was covered in wasps but did not
die and this confused me because he bared no welts and the sun never beat him down like a tired horse, he just was,
as solid as the shed or the wall that bordered the yard, he was a border, crossing in rubber boots, wiped his sweat onto the back of my
shirt and called that art, said it was a metaphor–– for art.
196 The Paris-American
Nic Alea is a poet and fiction writer from California with
BA in Creative Writing. She holds a fellowship from the Lambda Literary
foundation, was a semi-finalist for Button Poetry’s chapbook competition for
“Sad Boy Slumber Party,” and was voted one of SF Weekly’s 2014 “Best Writers
without a Book.” Nic has performed at the National Queer Arts Festival and has
work featured in journals such as Muzzle
Magazine, The Legendary, Rattle, and Write Bloody. She currently lives and writes in Melbourne,
Australia.