1665 22 15
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The river’s not/
a river but/
a FEMA map/
of flooding probabilities.
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166521
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“Hear that?” asks my wife Amy. Books in hand, we relax on our flagstone patio. A shaft of late-day sun borrows through the maples' leafy canopy and deposits a dazzling, sunlit pool on Amy's lap. …
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1665159
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The violin hung on the wall after that, a witness.
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166566
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4. A pig's orgasm lasts 30 minutes.
> > (In my next life, I want to be a pig.)
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166532
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Knowing this is too long for here I won't be crushed or enraged if no one has the time to read it. Also, it's not fiction.
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166511
|
I rummage around to see which of our many countertop appliances might do the trick. Yogurt maker? No, I need something with more muscle.
The Cuisinart--just the thing! I pick through the detachable blades—where’s the isotope shredder?
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16651613
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If this was the day when the bribes of whiskey and US dollars would fail to work. If on this day a black bag, smelling of shit and fear, would be pulled over his head – the bloodied roots of a knocked out tooth tickling his neck.
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16641311
|
I am constricted by rings. The weight of self crushes me.
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16641817
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One day my wife got so mad at me she raked her fingernails down my face.
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166444
|
I’ve had it to here you see.
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1664124
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was yesterday’s dawn breaking in the high sky/ meant for us?
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166411
|
When Kim handed me some of her husband’s condoms—“Here, use these”—out of one of their bedroom dresser drawers, could she sense the astonishment I was trying my best not to show?
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166442
|
The dogs shit on the roof and then, every two weeks or so, the man in Apartment 311 climbs out the window with a plastic shovel and scoops the shit into a white plastic bag, which soon grows heavy with dung, dangling from his black-gloved wrist.
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166400
|
I’m twenty eight years old, and I am dying.
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166340
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There was that long weekend she'd spent lazing around a suite at the Beverly Wilshire between the Golden Globes and the Oscars with the suddenly now married actor, and then there had been Cabo. This was before the current thing and before the thing before
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166322
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I got to Victoria station at quarter to eleven on a Friday with nothing but a small leather bag and the vague idea of getting out of London.
|
166375
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We could kiss under the elder tree, even though it was forbidden, even though we were drowned by the noise of the river and nothing we said was right
|
166342
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The stern tone of the chairwoman made him miss his mother, the snap of her accusations, the sting of her belt on the backs of his legs.
|
166321
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One night the woman went down in the
basement, grabbed an electric drill, and let the voices out in eight places.
|
1663115
|
i.More and more, for Megan LeMaster, each beginning was its own end. She couldn't bear to buy flowers or dresses that seemed too beautiful. Friendships formed, endured, gave out in a handshake. Each deed in life had an immediate, inescapable…
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166350
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In a hot splattering we were born
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1662105
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Are we like a poem, a short hand of words curtained together, evoking a mood, but in the end, impenetrable? We follow the clues to our lover's heart and what we find isn't him at all but ourselves. We fill every part of his life, every part of his past and even become…
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166220
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Duh. It’s all the same sky. Instead I nod, and don’t say anything.
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166253
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‘So what exactly did you decide?'It was two years later that Sato-san put the question to me. The two of us had been hiding for two bloody years, moving about in the marshes along the river, living off small, skimpy meals. We couldn't turn back to our unit, because Cesaru…
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1662147
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I knew it was just a matter of time...
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1662109
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It’s a little known fact that eels are often lost in translation – only the spotted variety, not the striped or the common and certainly not the electric.... I think about that lovely hippie girl and her knowledge of eels, sometimes.
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166201
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I wonder how much time she has left. I think she’s seventeen. I don’t know for sure because she was already grown when I got her from the pound, just before Christmas, years ago this was --back when I had hair and hope.
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166110
|
The recent release of my debut novel alt.punk was extraordinarily exciting; however, maturing the novel from first draft to publication was not without editing pains. Similar to the Kübler-Ross theory, I progressed through what I refer to as the “five sta
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1661173
|
My swinging purse sent saucers tinkling to the tile and the copper-headed waitress flew over, swooping on the shatter, clutching clean forks like a handful of flowers.
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166100
|
She turned to the window, staring into the dark. A smile crept to her lips and she laughed softly. “No, we can’t. I’m Mexican and we speak Spanish.” The smile vanished and she moved to leave. “No sé qué decir… sólo puedo llorar. Nada
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