Most read stories

The Tall Man’s Secret

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For the next two hours, Ed goes nonchalantly about his business, buck naked the whole time. He putters around the house, writes e mails, waters plants, vacuums the rug and sweeps the porch. I pretend to ignore his nudity

THERE IS AN I.V. OF THE TIMES I HAVE THOUGHT, "I DON'T KNOW WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT" AND IT IS SWELLING MY VEINS

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god bless my shapeless head. we are good at becoming older. i feel incredibly negative all the time.

Cleverbot conversation RSC00206460

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maybe if I bat my lashes just right, or look prim enough to fly, you just might touch me tonight, and the dream will pop and fizz and I will wake somewhere, your hands smoothing these lines of worry away.

The Burning Gulf

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None of us ever thought this would happen.

The Sex Life of Your Mouth

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"What say we adjourn to the bedroom and I give you a little demonstration of sexual acrobatics?”

Crawl

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Crawl to the dark places I love most, loud music and off key laughter, glimmering green and brown bottles eagerly holding the dim lights overhead inside themselves like ransomed stars.

Albert's Mother

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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.

Preliminary

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After court, the three of us skipped third period, walked down to the river and huddled under the 6th Street Bridge.

Not Wanting to Write

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I don't want / to write about the body indulged, desires / denied, tortures invented, pleasures innate

A Silent Scream

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She hated the noiseless dying sound they made as he stuck the hook through their eyes. She always wanted for them to scream, but they never did. They didn’t even blink.

Though the Heart be Still as Loving

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With my heart preserved, I shoved a handful of baubles back in its place: some pages torn from my favorite books, a bass guitar string, a butane lighter, a shot of vodka. I stitched myself back up and left the roof in favor of the attic, where I hung my s

Something for you

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Bearing the smell of paper on her fingertips. Ink in her hair.

Polaris

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Things get lost in Big John, too. I see the other guys throw jokes about his size at his body that wedge their way into his armpits or into the wrinkles of his laugh lines and disappear. I’m not sure if it all disappears to remind us how small we are,

How the Body Prepares Itself

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it corrupts the smells// and flavors of the world/ and plants its swollen face

Not Tired

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Three hours isn't that long.

The Strongest Girl in the World

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At the edge of the forest, his sister began to complain about how everybody—their mother and father and all of her friends included—hated her. It was exasperating, the light she sometimes put herself in. The fact of the matter was that she received more

Time

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time. Night after night he's up, restless. What if she knew his plans? If only he'd bypass his miscalculations and slip through

Aloha

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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.

Post-Op

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She tells Tuesday's lover that there's nothing wrong with cheap thrills without anesthesia,

The Letter

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You know how it is, one day a good friend sends you this long note telling you how-the-hell they are or aren't getting along in the frigging world

When the Songbirds Went Silent in Cheerytown

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What happens to a town when all of its songbirds go on strike?

Source Code

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....the first/ in a long history of indignities.

Maximus and Kimchi

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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.

Brick Walls

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A flash in seven chapters.

The Little Things

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Incredibly he began to picture in his mind a scene not related at all to his frenzied search but of a huge plate of apple pie a la mode with the vanilla ice cream melting in streams like cool lava down the side of the pie and off of the plate.

Disparity

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sacred ground bleached with the salt of bitter tears

Everyone Is Going Away

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“I don’t know what’s going on there,” Hank, who hated his name and wanted a more Biblical name because those names (Jeremiah! Matthew! David!)—although common—sound ominous, said as he pointed up to the top of the apartment building that housed the whores

The Tree is Farther to the Man

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I am constricted by rings. The weight of self crushes me.

3 Kids

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There he was, naked and covered in green mud

On reading the “Lives of the Poets” by Michael Schmidt

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And now its done! Five months read! This book is batoning in my head. Its eleven o'clock AM and hot as hell, even the breeze, billowing nets through the sliding screen adds sweat, cuts me down to size. I will needs again to…