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The scared woman, she hides her flaws from the world.
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Left, I see parkland and cyclists and sun. Right: picnic blankets, naked men and lunchtime assignations.
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It’s the audacious testicle dancing in its theater, isn’t it? Carrying the legendary names. The bad blood, the jealousy the heart retains, living again under its skin, rarely enlivened by one of its own.
There was enough angel in you that we would g
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Touch the wrong thing and everything will crash down around you. This was the fatherly advice Warren bestowed upon me as we entered his Miami apartment.
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On my way to the creative writing class the next week, I decided that, despite the canonical immortalization of ‘Virginia’ the nineteen-year-old nymph, I didn’t like his story. What was I going to say? Did he expect me to fuck him now? My hands grew sweat
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1,919 followers in 105 countries come to this site every day looking for breaking news on the number of white kittens promoters are required to provide Mariah Carey at each concert.
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...something darkly malevolent looming above him...
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A cruel panther gets its prey.
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The cabin has windows all around, like ribbon tying a birthday present.
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“The Boy from Thuringia” is part of a series of stories collectively called The History of Adoption. In it, a middle-aged man sets out rather obsessively to write a comprehensive history of the adopted child. In his attempts to finally begin this im
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Details may be missing from our lives, but you can fill them in any time you want. Fill up the cup again with me. Come in and be warm, anytime you want. Wine, women, song, whatever. I sat on the curb once, in Mexico, saying, “Give me your salads, your o
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What the five-year-old I baby sit for wanted to do yesterday was torture his Barbies. “Why would you want to do that?” I asked.“Because we're bad guys!” said Hanina. “Can't we be good guys?”“Not today. Today we're bad…
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Marion had decided to stop whenever she came upon Amarillo. It was close to two a.m. when she pulled into the motel parking lot. Momma, read the nametag on the woman at reception. Her face was illuminated by a TV. Her hair curlers were illuminated by the lone desk lamp…
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“I am the Successor of Peter!” he said, supporting himself on the shepherd’s staff topped with a crucifix: “And you are trespassing on Holy Ground.” Baal said: “No ground is Holy for me.
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Sunday mornings my mother got up early—and dragged me kicking and screaming out of bed and into my nicest jeans and sweater. I have still never thanked her. (I’m borrowing, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less true.)
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Francesco tried to fix Oriana's face in his mind as he blindly walked to the taxi queue.
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Sitting on the couch when we got cable television, on that first day. Pressing buttons that sounded like the slap that your attention span would take as you made your way through the twenty, thirty, forty channels. As you grew older, the amount of channel
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Finally my daughter emerges from behind the silver curtain, riding piggy-back on a gigantic proboscis monkey. She's preoccupied by his nose, and wrings it like a wet dishrag with both hands. If it hurts he's not showing it.
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It’s that, really, nothing else could be
Sleep and Poetry, Mr. Keats
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It's important to sound
human, I know
To get fragile
near your
mother
I myself
get glimpses
now and then
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Professor Immanuel Danda finished his Ph.D. at 21, which, according to most of his friends and a few of his enemies, makes him a genius, though, personally, he always found himself to be a scruffy loser, if one were to believe, above all else, the mirror
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Their tongues were dry, her milk was gone, and the last bit of water in the plastic jug had evaporated.
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Sometimes/in the middle of the night/awake under a panoply/as caustic as Doré/illustrating Dante
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“We should go again,” said Krishna.
But Iqbal didn’t reply. He sipped his tea like he hadn’t heard, but a tremor passed through his right shoulder. His left arm was bandaged, and the wrist and lower arm were in a c
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In the blue of the yard the twins boil and scrape,
twisting about beneath the sycamore tree.
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“What would you get? What should you give a lady who’s one hundred for her birthday?”
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The rhythm of my breathing
is a litany of regret.
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From the opening bars that conjure up the sounds of European auto horns, "Parisian Thoroughfare" is as light as French pastry, as free and airy as a skirt blown by the wind.
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