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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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114633
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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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97832
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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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You're all I've got to keep me company, but it's a very fine company. So familiar, and warm as any cold digital fireplace. I can tell you've got more in your story, but it doesn't make you happy. I really do not feel well today. Fun I wanted to…
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One night he woke up with Underdog laying next to him, breathing softly. He marveled at how fiction could make reality so much better.
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her knife cleaves a single red hair
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At least ten people have been shot by their dogs since 2004, usually in hunting accidents. (AARP Bulletin, January February 2016)If somebody phones you claiming to be with the IRS, it's a scam. The real IRS will only open communications with a taxpayer via the U.S.…
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80833
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Do you know how much it takes to holdthe spring you love against your lips? No angel, or I, will ever begrudge, nor the planets that have to slow their pace and stumble their orbits a degree behind to make the magic that keeps our grip. We could have been elephants…
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In the night, a several-hundred-pound Black Bear scaled our neighbor’s back fence, bounded down the gravel footpath between our houses and, confused by the people and lights, followed his instincts up a large pine tree across the street...
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The phone screamed again, nearly rattling off the hook, and I winced. Only in the dead of night, silence all around it and with the ring so unexpected, did it register as an alarm like this.
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There is an island behind the house in which I grew up. It is a network of bicycle paths and booby traps. The past is snared there.
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Sally-Anne is in a graveyard. A girl about her age and height died two years before. Sally-Anne is digging up the bones. Her parents Aaron and Rebecca think she is at her piano…
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Waiting for the light to turn, his mind wandered, wondering how it was that bridges of this sort collected stories. Old thru truss bridges with grated deckings, or any older bridge for that matter. The stories seemed to have died out since the concrete
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in a complete rage he lifted his entire golf bag full of clubs over his head and threw them into the creek.
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Friday afternoon. Angelique Brody knocked Francesco’s studio door.
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The house was empty now - silent. Each room was filled with air too thin to sustain memory. She stood, absorbing the emptiness, addding it to her own. Her footsteps were hesitant, reluctant to disturb the silence. She walked into her old bedroom - so…
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