New Writing 

In-Between Dreams

By Szilvia Molnar

We were at someone else’s place and snuck into the bathroom. There were people outside somewhere in the apartment, moving back and forth because this was a party. We had to avoid being seen together. I went first. The bathroom had a bathtub. I got undressed and got into the empty bathtub. You came second. You’re the married one.

The showerhead was attached to a pump, the size of a large coffee thermos. You said something and I said something and I looked around and you sat behind me nakedly. Your legs wrapped themselves around me.

We were talking during this time about how this was not possible. We can’t do this. And then I sprayed you down with water.

Another night, I found a naked baby and I took it home because it could have been ours. It puked something see-through on me so I decided to shower it.
Then I noticed it was very hungry. I let it suck my right breast but of course it was disappointed and when I turned it toward the left breast the baby turned into a newborn bird but one with the softest feathers. I needed to get food in the bird baby real fast but I wasn’t sure if there was enough time. Life was about to end. I thought of calling the hospital and realized that I should have done that from the start.

I don’t know what exactly happened or why but in between these dreams last night I yearned for you. My body was reaching out to you and I was imagining us kissing, gently in the present. My body wanting only to be in the present.
We were standing up and I was looking up at you, holding the back of your neck, perhaps slightly pulling at your hair, and you hung over me like a large feathered creature, something comforting.

Illustration by S. Lorenzo

There are these men who sometimes act like boys and they’re around and want to do things to me and I’ll probably let them do things to me, and I’ll probably have a good time and sometimes even laugh or learn something but it’s you who I think of. I miss your arrogance, awkwardness, bluntness, your cheeky humor. I miss you from here. And I’m left feeling slightly helpless.

But I want to be released from this yearning, this immediate urge to want to be with you. I need to tell myself and you need to tell me that it’s not going to happen.
This shouldn’t happen. Us won’t happen. I’m looking in the wrong direction.

We are not friends. We never were and never will be. And you need to tell me to never write to you again as I will tell you to never write to me again.

Do we have a deal?

Fingerlickingly yours,



Summer in Vézelay


Text by Tereza Zelenkova

Last summer, when I quite by chance found myself in Burgundy, I decided to take a little detour from where I was staying and visited Vézelay, a small town where Bataille spent a few years during the War and kept returning to until his death in 1962. Vézelay’s dominant architecture is the impressive Basilica, which stands on the top of the hill, to which Bataille supposedly owned the keys. For Bataille, religious and sexual ecstasy was never too far from each other, something he often demonstrated with the case of St. Theresa of Avila.

Here in Vézelay, Bataille finished his book Guilty, something of a masterpiece combining literature, philosophy, diary, and poetry into one. It is also a place where he’s buried. 

My boyfriend took a photo of me sitting outside his former house there. When I approached the door and was about to sit down, I noticed something lying on the doorstep. I lent down and to my absolute awe I picked up a small bird’s egg that fell from a nest positioned in the corner of the doorway. For those who haven’t read Story of the Eye, the egg plays a vital symbolic role in this erotic novel published by Bataille under the pseudonym of Lord Auch.

I kept the egg in the pocket of my trousers, trying to preserve it but later I crushed it by accident when I squatted to pee and forgot it was there. When I got back to our house I asked a friend to give me a matchbox for it. Only days later I noticed the picture of eggs on the box. These are the things that make me laugh on the inside and the things I look for when taking photographs – these coincidental connections that you don’t plan and that make photography exciting.

New Books

by Margueritte
de Ponty


Text by India Menuez

Your old high school
make out spot
is not a park
with a name otherwise.

13th street is yours too.
All content is copyright Avenue and the authors.

John Hudson White

Enya Mommsen

Elizabeth Morina

Hollie Van Osenbruggen

Marguerite de Ponty