This is the story of the man whose wife lived in his neck. Every morning, he would turn to her and say, "Hello, Sweetheart. How was your night?" and she would answer, Brilliant! What else?

That’s what she left behind, and I put it in my mouth and swallowed.

But those burning red numbers persist in my mind and I can't rest 'till they're gone They always come back Like the cat in that childhood song.

Behind the plastic kitchen, where the special children sometimes sit, a large boy in tight dungarees had grabbed Stephanie's hair in one fist.

Perhaps a blue person is more alive underneath than a red. Red is eye-catching and flashy, but blue is substantial, secretive. Of course, blood is red, and there’s nothing more substantial than blood, but we’re on blue at the moment, and the thought

Today's girls all look the same. Angie isn't even sure if one leaves and a new one enters. They blend together like paper-dolls, clinging to one another, connected, braided. This morning, while one of them lies with her legs in a V, the alarm goes off

Behind them all, in the background, a tray of vodka tonics waits on a glass table, the limes losing color as they drown.

Residual flashbacks; just tiny bright lightning bolts that flash in front of my eyes, just like standing watching a soaring bonfire on a cold and frosty November night, pinprick sparks flying up into the endless darkness of the night.

And because the film is French, the camera pauses / long moments at the curve of her neck, it watches/ her finger vermilion tulips in a vase. Her new lover,/ a wisp of a man, looks good in leather./ The camera pans quickly across beige suede,/ rests long

Newsome glared at the sleeping woman, slumped over the edge of the hard, metal table, her head settled comfortably into the crook of her arm. Over an hour she's been in that position, he thought. Despite the harshness of the room, the fluorescent lights,…

We all have friends that would drop everything to save us. It’s the times we don’t need help that they’re not nearly as attentive.

You were at a saloon on Water Street. Witnesses say. You were taken out of the place and put on a sloop against your will. Witnesses don’t say.

“ I told you what she said, that she liked me better when I was drinking. Well, that's the way I feel, too. I liked her better when I was drinking.”

The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue just came out, and all over America librarians are flipping through its pages and rolling their eyes. The swimsuit issue, which isn't actually about swimwear at all, but, is, instead, about young, beautifully shaped female…

"What's that smell?" Osama glares at me from the front seat of the Trans Am. "What smell?" I say. "You smell like a diaper. Are you wearing a diaper?" Osama and Peach both laugh at me. "No... maybe, its my Baby Soft perfume. Is it too strong?"