1821 5 4
|
Max is the color of burnt caramelized sugar
the sweet crust that decorates our bright enameled pots.
|
182100
|
They stood before the opened door, where cold vapor seeped out along their feet and chilled their bodies. The Avatars figured this was what the necromancer used to get inside.
|
18212718
|
1. The ghost that photographs my wife and me has a peculiar sense of lighting. In this one, we are sitting at the kitchen table of our old apartment. The table is made of glass. There is nothing on the table except our elbows. She has lowered her head between her…
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182051
|
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.
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1820139
|
with cool confidence
and believable body language
|
18201312
|
He introduced me to key lime pie, and for this alone I would have loved him forever. It was an innocent time for me, and I was easy to please.
|
182031
|
She picked the perfect white wine that she poured in the carafe early to give it ample time to breathe before the guests arrived. She thought of everything. The first course would be Asian Carrot-Ginger soup with black sesame seeds and diced green onion
|
18202013
|
There’s / no crying in poetry!” says Coach / Bukowski
|
182032
|
Miraculous tarantulas, and octopii, have many limbs akimbo, Two have you: and they are better than be kept in zoo. Thine eyne are like the marbles that my youth had held in limbo, ‘Cept even better yet, for they are fairly lashed and greeny-blue. Your…
|
181986
|
The Ocean used to be ours. When the stars were still fire and they were the only light burning though the dim, hazy nights, the ocean was ours. Before the smog, and the lights that were carried by the men who rose from the sea, the ocean was ours. We…
|
18191412
|
At five o’clock in the afternoon, at five o’clock / in the afternoon
|
181932
|
The woods. They say don’t wander too far into the woods, where those ghosts can’t hear you and the moonlight won’t trace you a path. In the black crowd of trees there’s something waiting. Don’t go to the where the siren is singing...
|
181953
|
The summer everyone read Faulkner, I read Hemingway. Out of spite.
|
18191911
|
It's been sixteen days since I spoke with another soul. I don't mind much, but I know enough about people to know most would think I'm mighty odd. Muriel, for example. She'd be pissed as all get out. …
|
181970
|
"Do you have to call your brother a loser? He is not a loser and that was just uncalled for"
|
181800
|
In se'enties style serenading strut
A passin all the pretty birds in kin',
The feathered Stetson ‘clipsin crimson suit,
A whistlin Dixie blues ‘cross county-lines.
|
181884
|
Jesus Freaks will go tat head... crowns of thorns for their noggins and so on. Christ had one too...
|
18182319
|
Mack’s mind held a chandelier.
|
181800
|
Seven black and orange Tortoise-shell kittens nursed in a crate the day Sue returned from rehab, to her parent's Atlanta home.
|
18182411
|
whistling some blithering tune, trotting around the kitchen in his underwear with his ribs, a long row of meatless tragedies that screamed for something other than the meal he was making.
|
181876
|
...some years later I heard that an old friend jumped off that bridge to her death.
|
181833
|
I can tread water like this for months maybe longer
|
1818129
|
Harpo sits and looks at something I can't see. I drink beer and ask him questions. I ask him how they found the cancer. Backache, he says. He went to see a doctor.
|
181700
|
“Where are you going?” asked the young man. Teary-eyed and beaten, he gently put his hands on the shoulders of Snow-child, her back turned from him. “Home,” Snow-child said. “I'm going back to Norway.” …
|
181751
|
The waitress says,
“That’s a memory,”
as the smoke dances around her head.
|
181774
|
Start with a long look down the alley, a small hoodied figure turning in.
|
181733
|
Blacked-out out on junk, I bet money on a sport I hated just last year.
|
181700
|
Walking into the living room and next to the tree, he handed his wife Kathy her Minnie and plopped himself on the couch. Their three kids, two girls and the youngest a boy, tore through the wrapping paper like a pack of rabid wolves tearing through a deer
|
181765
|
What doesn't kill you gives you great material.
|
181741
|
My father is remarkably clever. That is, for a rundown, henpecked fisherman. He has caught me again. He has me slung over his back in a rickety lobster trap and I can hear him huffing and the water in him sloshing and though I can't see his face, I imagine it is ruddied…
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