1739 6 3
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Her skin is muddy earth/
I'd gladly play in.
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1739208
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Phoebe-Lou Adams wrote this of them
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173992
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‘Look, look, Quark. Look here. Warthearm. A shiny warthearm.’ Maz was on his elbows and knees, his fat ass sticking out in their air like two cannon-balls ready to be shot off. He was peering at a long, shapeless earthworm, its skin translucent and i
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1738108
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Time to pull in the shining teeth, but it makes me so sad, you know I'd rather be holding hands. The others have told me, don't hold back, hit them with every white knuckle, and let them bleed out, I'd rather be kissing your face. It hurts,…
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173811
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The tiles begin inching toward him as soon as he moves. You've seen filings on glass. He's the magnet on the underside.
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1738173
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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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173891
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She was skinny and with breasts like a wound up skein of yarn.
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1738147
|
a bird who gives messages
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17381312
|
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1738108
|
nothing can stop a group of genteel Southern women from a card game, and divine intervention makes one's participation in such an event quite worthwhile
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173700
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The moonlight illuminated Dahlia’s bare breasts. She remembered when Gerard used to appreciate them.
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1737105
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That Dagwood is not a real person but a story told in dots. That Blondie is a male fantasy and will one day find her Nora Helmer.
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17371710
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“What are you doing, Maestro?"
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17371315
|
Somewhere a banjo, somewhere a hound.
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17371710
|
Ancestry.com The Liverpool census in 1851 lists him:Thirteen years old, Irish. Occupation: beggar. Only that. I will do more for him.I will see him in torn jacket and too-short pants singing all day of the fields, the cliffs,…
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173740
|
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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1737114
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Billy had crystal blue eyes A small mouth And long hair to cover up his Hearing aids. He told me once, with his hands How he liked to submerge His head in water and yell So loud he could feel it. "I can hear myself that way," he…
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173700
|
Bo ruled the city by suggesting new scent formulas in a booming croak of a voice that shook the earth for acres around, yet as a result everybody on the block smelled like fairy breath. Or, on his BAD BREATH DAYS all of the people reeked of rotted sushi f
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173711
|
Of all the things Shelly hated about her job, the music was the worst.
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173797
|
"Think of every sexual partner you've ever had. I'm nothing like them. Unless you've ever slept with a bulimic German cellist called Elsa."
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173632
|
The smell of candy and burn... /A patriotic prose poem for the fourth of July.
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173652
|
“It’s about basic working conditions!” she says, rubbing ice cubes on her nipples.
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173611
|
Graeme King was disturbed. He sat at his desk feeling his bloodshot eyes rolling backwards, impatient, leaden in their sockets. Could he believe what he had just seen? Surely not. Surely the late nights spent absorbing the relentless pulse of his computer screen…
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1736101
|
I told you that I have homicidal urges that alternate with ones of the suicidal kind. You flicked an imaginary speck of dust from your fat, fleshy forefinger with your ultra-flexible, wimpy thumb.
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17362212
|
I liked the taste in my mouth, mint and cigarettes and fresh and filthy.
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17361817
|
The air is dry and smoky from a fire some miles away. The air is cool. A pair of vultures is soaring in a circle high above the rising land.
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1736177
|
Through its branches we saw a couple. Teenagers, narrow and pale, two young birch trees, their roots twisted, submerged in the water.
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173600
|
Lighter-than-air flight was back. The skies of the coast were alight with colorful balloons, dirigibles, and zeppelins tethered to their docking towers along the beach, the huge aircraft bobbing in the breeze up and down the coast for miles,…
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173542
|
He returned to America on the Fourth of July. Twisting in his cramped window seat miles above the Atlantic, he buckled up before the descent. “You can handle this,” he muttered. Hungover, still reeling from the dreamy head-turning experience of…
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173500
|
As children we invent games and we're really creative. We concoct ridiculous rules and enjoy making adaptations to them. And everything makes sense. Then you grow up, lose creativity. You don't invent games anymore. Recess is replaced with a second…
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