Most discussed stories

STILL NO WORD ON WHAT HAPPENED TO THE CREATURE'S GOLDFISH

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Innocent victims know their tonsils. Or know the sound of their forceful removal. Their mangled beauty is the grain that has gracefully substituted all the limb-hacking. The creature used to have a friend whose gestures were very harmless, …

Cornelius van Linjpleel's Contributions to the Study of Etruscan Tombs

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Cornelius van Linjpleel discovered and excavated for himself a lone Etruscan tomb not far from Populonia in 1898.

Occupy This!

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I Did Not Write This

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PhD's in remorse. Babes without eyes. Presbyterian church-goers baked in their pies. Miss prim-and-propers stranded on meadows. Men rescuing cats then queuing for medals. I did not write this, I swear I did not write this. Saurian…

Preacher Alphonse Jicklo

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Samson was also somewhat in hopes that his son Jason would become engaged in this minor capitalist enterprise and 'turned around' in his life.

Backwards

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One of her favorites was of an old axe asleep on a desert floor. She told people the axe had the western lips of September. That it held the song of the ocean and the dreams of a scarecrow. Some thought she was mad to talk in such a way. Others believed h

This Train Is Bound For Paoli: A Multiple Choice Essay

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Train 664 leaves Thirtieth Street Station bound for New York City at 10:55. Concurrently, Train 663 leaves the station, headed for Harrisburg. Both trains are, confusingly, called The Keystone.If Mark and I have tickets for Train 664 because we plan to…

The Secret Life

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The silver urn of ashes inscribed with his unknown name.

I Channel Quevedo

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-Hey, life! Nobody answers? WTF? -Ah life! Nobody answers me. Well, what did I expect?

New Moon, Old Moon

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The moon once rose on its own Now it takes a series of Ropes and pulleys to get it up Because it’s so old And you can hear these audible groans Coming from its craters As it’s forced to listen to forgotten lovers Obsessing over old lov

Suicidal god

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My dog’s on suicide precautions. I had to take away all her eating utensils--even the chopsticks. So now she has to eat directly from the bowl. It doesn’t seem to slow her down.

An Object for the Sun God

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this one was abandoned... a splinter left under the skin, pushed out by protective flesh

Halfway Out The Door

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She asks if I only write about men, which I tell her is redundant. I also answer, “Yes, but sometimes I write about them as race cars, hyenas, vaginas, or God.” She smirks like she wants to smile, but it’s stuck halfway out her door. Her happiness has

PHILANDERING

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He had been the innocent stooge for a young girl's selfish dreams. He vowed to be more careful. He would rather be lonely, if need be, than compromise himself with girls like that.

Late Night / Early Morning

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It's 2am. The wind is moving at speed, whipping gently the tree branches, and their leaves rustle simultaneously to create a audible sound, like hands flipping through sheets of paper, or that feeling you get on your fingertips when going across a textured surface. I'm…

Last Night I Dated The Universe

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Last night I dated the universe. What a hottie! I arrived on time and was feeling a bit spacey. Look at me, I said. I'm on time. Yeah, well, I invented time. I made sure you'd be here on time. Cool. Where do you want to go? Doesn't matter. Wherever we go I'm already…

The Birdcage

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He blew out the candle. There was the tang of candle smoke, scattered by a sudden rush of wings, and the immediacy of another breathing thing in the dark. I heard the birdcage open, and the bird fluttering in there without crying out.

Avatar Of Chaos

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He has one good eye and is missing the other. The socket of his missing eye squints with a disturbing and unfathomable insight.

Nope - song

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The tax man he is coming But I got me no dough Been looking for some new job That’s going really slow I bought a lottery ticket But dropped it down the well I went to see the psychic She said I’d go to hell Can’t cope, I just can’t cope

Like There Was No Tomorrow

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And there on the street Were a bunch of frantic pigeons Picking over some discarded Chicken bones I mean they were really Going to town on them You know, frantic Like there was no tomorrow And then I saw it A real sign of progress

Pot or Marijuana

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Every six weeks or so, he and I would argue. I would argue. He would listen. He raised me twenty-five cents each time. I suppose that is a bad habit for me to have gotten into—to get pissed about rates and to fight to get a raise.

The Suicide Lie

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I’m a suicide prevention counselor for teens. Most of the time I answer phones and tell kids not to kill themselves over their boyfriends and girlfriends and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, etc. I’m not even sure what the number is—1-800-DONT-DIE or something li

TWO STEPS

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It turns out I know a thing or two about momentum. I know, I know. Like the crescendo of your bicycle wheels. Like the force the florist put on the stems the day Linda died. The way my fingers spin between planetary mass. This is how I know I’m not real

Philip Guston and the Ultimate Mudball

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The huge mudball has rolled downhill, catching up one of them. Part of a leg sticking up from the surface with its shoe still on, but we can assume the rest of the human, or humanity if you will, is lost somewhere deep inside it.

Sisyphus

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He’s more than a little pissed at all this eternal boulder rolling.

The Perplexed Follow Their Own Guidance, Merci

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The generalized mania and rage was for anything prior, the rare and the bygone, anything that might have been overlooked, anything that might otherwise have been forgotten for good and forever.

To Make Way for the Future

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It was the shock of black hair twisted into a long thick braid that got our attention and made us want to find meaning here. Albert thought he recognized the hair in the grave.

Magdalena

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Magdalena followed the receding tide, her tiny feet leaving no rumors in the hard sand. She gathered only the most beautiful shells and presented them to her waiting Abuela. Her grandmother told her that the only things that a woman truly owns are her dreams. She told her…

London Calling

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Bloomsbury crowd

A Harsh Pep Talk

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You are nothing but a generic white man with average looks and intelligence, trapped in an indie romantic comedy. You sit in your overstuffed coffeeshop chair, drinking an impossibly befoamed cappuccino, the sleeves of your flannel rolled up to your elbows, mellow synth…