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The first photo above shows plainly: five children dressed in suits and dresses. There are three girls. Each girl wears a yellow sundress with chiffon ribbons. The boys have been terrorizing them--the girls, not the dresses.
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Proudly we fight, yetWe run, we hideIn the jungle's quietBut how can we hushthe screams of the dead?
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But Jana insisted to see this miracle, this antidote for the mundanity of existence.
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Writer Marion Winik has ridiculously bad taste in men. She's an intelligent woman and a terrific writer, a good mom with a good heart, and ALL of her romantic relationships are train wrecks.Winik recounts her quest for love at age 50 in her new book, “Highs In The Low…
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IT's like, 15 words. Do you really need a snippet?
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I have never met Joe’s brother, of course.
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contemplatedshredding lettersfrom mybelated betterscauterizingsevered tethershorizoningmy ruffled feathers
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They look like giant golden raindrops, or flying saucers, or peculiar fish out of their element
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His friend Boner, who was more accurately a friend of Milo, who was a friend of his cousin in Dubai and who had, up until this post, seemed to share thoughts in common with him, posted, “Holy Shit, Dude! What’re You On?”
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To him the younger women, contemporaries of the bride, all sounded as if they were breathing helium.
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Far away or up close, she appeared just like anyone else, a young woman with pale arms and legs and a milk-face unblemished by a single freckle or pimple or blotch. Only when she turned a certain way did it become clear that what rested atop her muscle an
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The smell of candy and burn... /A patriotic prose poem for the fourth of July.
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No one takes me seriously because I am an idiot.
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I used to compare her to a sunburnthe first of the summerit is always the worst oneexposed skinalmost hot to the touchturning warm and pinkthen raw and redit is a transition that is effortlessbut still you can feel it happeninga lot like loveyou can feel it all around…
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a random sticker that says, Repent Sinner, and a club lineup snaking around the corner and sirens and that urine smell at alley's mouth
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For years, Nina lived in an apartment with furniture that was silver or clear or metallic, she could see her reflection in every surface. She had an enormous television that took up one entire wall of the small living room. She and Anna and Desmond, Nina's downstairs …
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The man who put up the clothes line left his kids upstairs at night and came down to my bed.
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—Francesco, did you come to bed last night?
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His thoughts drifted to when he was a kid, to the monthly trip to the barber.
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salmon
maple syrup
horseradish
smoke detector
the list read, scrawled in purple marker on the refrigerator door.
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In the sad suburban subdivision
with its cul-de-sacs and broken curbs
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Death.
That which lays all men equal in the eyes of the earth.
Their is one for each of us, a unique snowflake of demise tailor made for every organism that persists in this convoluted game of life.
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I remember when I first came to California, I heard a mockingbird sitting in a tree, calling out in the names of other birds. It was down in L.A. I was staying at my brother's house in San Gabriel and driving in every day to the campus at UCLA to go to s
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He’s so stoned he’s in the zen zone,
Which is just beyond the end zone.
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It had been over three months since he’d left his home and started to walk. He’d kept a journal to begin with, but his book soon ran out of batteries. It was that sort of thing that had irked Neil at the start, but now he’d just let it slide down his back
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“The King,” he paused, pursed his lips, looked across the crowd of eager and fearful citizens of Ki, “is dead!”
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He tilted his head at his monitor and exhaled “No.” Minutes later, he tilted his head the other way and more sharply exclaimed “No!” Then he began over the next quarter hour simply to stare at the data stream before him, which left him speechless.
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box of wild animals in a tiny window and not just because you're in it, too,but I can't really imagine its twirling around and around like that without you. The sleek massive bodies of sharks too are beautiful in slow motion rise but…
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“That’s just Ryan W. Bradley—son of a bitch knows better by now.”
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My memory is like tracks in the snow. My memory is cookie dough. My memory is dirty tube socks.
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