973 6 6
|
This is not her death. This is absent-minded omniscience. This is impossible. And then again, the inside-out, implosion. And the hall was clogged with bodies; none of them hers, but who could be sure?
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133062
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We cannot cross the river until it freezes. Bekker predicts January. For food we gather leaves, berries and roots from the thick forest behind the cabin. Suarez boils what we find into a revolting paste that we spoon into our mouths with dirty fingers.
|
137965
|
I stole forth dimly in the dripping pause
|
123465
|
I know someone in need of healing.
|
130064
|
We played synthetic derivative punk. We used Donald Trump tweets as lyrics.
|
125165
|
The boy heard loud barks and squeals, climbed on a chair, and looked out the window at the barnyard and the faded blood red barn.
|
168764
|
We lived in a white and mint green trailer in the woods. I was 23. The hanging of the clothes on the line made me feel kind of famous in the eyes of nature
|
99663
|
Where scenery is property and time is a straight edge; where the clouds are billowed and still; where one sees a tinfoil ocean and perspective to the east; where the static waves begin to move; where an immobile sky rustles and kneels. Our eyes looking still are the…
|
134865
|
This writers' conference (sponsored by VQR, which had run its banner ad atop the Fictionaut home page in the summer of 2014, which begins to explain both my attendance and this essay) revealed itself as an apt subject . . .
|
124362
|
your light is gonna
last me
through the week
|
109764
|
My supper consisted of no cheese
My marriage consisted of no violin
|
147165
|
The bar sounds grew (as bar sounds will) until everything rushed together -- clinking glass, tinkling ice, laughter and zippers going down then up.
|
112365
|
We write in darkness. We love
in alleys. We breathe into beige
paper bags. Anything to mollify
the confusion. Anything to simplify
the math.
|
144967
|
"Someone should have told her that less is more..."
|
110562
|
One of his operas was confiscated when he couldn’t pay a hotel bill. He ended up in a mental home, demented from syphilis.
|
74962
|
More Rock Groups I Have Known and/or Been In
|
123567
|
The dead girl was his niece’s daughter. Only thirteen years old.
|
121963
|
Day by day people went missing. Reports of the ads being answered with a robocall solution to their problems were at first unconfirmed. Yesterday my best friend told me his emotional distress call was going to be channeled into a free trip to what he call
|
130166
|
Divine guidance. That's why Dad used a blowtorch to set the jug on fire, its contents the “Devil's elixir.”
|
131562
|
It was only two days before Christmas. Jonathan remembered his mother crying.
|
317363
|
Last week I came home early from work and caught my wife having sex with the Cookie Monster.
|
180664
|
When Quince came rolling up into my front yard that morning, we were up to our neck in August, staring down a seventh-grade year that had crept perilously close when we weren’t looking. I’m thirty-five years clear of it now, and I can still sense Texas on
|
109061
|
I got fired once because I couldn't make change. I knew this going in. Friends and family all pushed me to take a job behind the counter at a health food store. I kept insisting I couldn't make change. Seriously. My mind goes blank. If someone hands me a five dollar…
|
147263
|
|
150566
|
What she didn't tell me was that her brother Carl got fried during an electrical storm.
|
136262
|
Two women sat at a small round table near the sidewalk waiting for the same man.
|
133167
|
These little things, they are the hopes We were waiting for, they are everywhere. I made this one just for you. Call them feathers. Call them roses. You'll always See them if you need them. These Little things carry the good news…
|
105462
|
I found a field
where all the
unanswered prayers
were once buried
but someone
someone
someone had
dug them up
again
and was putting
them
to good use
|
128263
|
someone left graffiti on the billboard
over: "God's a hard
act to follow"; the one that made the news
|
120263
|
Saturday at Portobello market. Wind whittles leaves from the trees; casts shop signs into windows, turning glass to shimmering fishscale.
|
