1816 12 8
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1816 25 10
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Tendering these stalks, making the pie, heralds me a holder of apron strings...
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1816 4 1
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Cassie cradles the loaf-sized phone – pinker than any girl – and dials. he's not wearing a hat says the phone and we all scratch our pencils on the boy-list.
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1816 8 3
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45s I’ve kept wrapped in newspaper in the attic. These are all mine. Some doubling up in sleeves. Some pushing tears in the seams.
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1816 8 5
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He says the medic held a needle/said, “This will hurt,”/and pierced his lung
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1816 2 3
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But they all know the parking prayer...
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1815 0 0
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She pulls out of love, while you sit upon the rumble seat, a granted is taken for every crack of the whip. She pulls out of fear. She pulls.
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1815 7 4
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The investigator starts by accumulating facts, as many facts as he can. He sifts through them with meticulous precision, leaving no leaf unturned, no page unread.
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1815 8 6
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“No,” he says. A simple lie. “I -” He pushes the sleeping bag off of his legs. Their getaway reset was a mistake.
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1815 0 0
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Just as he expected, the reaction was spontaneous, euphoric and unequivocally positive. With just one exception. A politician connected with the home service of his parliamentary section's boss, with the mobile phone number 0-609-3459812, and known for hi
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1815 2 1
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It wasn't that I couldn’t imagine it. Rather, I could almost conjure the choreography to mind. One of his hands would graze at the side of my face. One finger would extend and stroke me, from my temples to my chin. He would press my body against something
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1815 10 5
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Half way through our cigarettes she told me her name was Charlotte.
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1815 4 1
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Butchie was the one who heard about the bonfire happening over on Harrison Avenue.
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1814 13 7
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Here’s how you do it. First you get a ladder, a long one.
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1814 4 4
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People were just doing it.
Doing it everywhere. On lawn chairs and stray patio cushions and watching. Watching every one do it.
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1814 1 0
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As Gino exited the supermarket, plastics bags in tow, he began doing curls with his right arm. He’d been doing this for years, reasoning that he might as well get some exercise during the walk home.
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1814 0 0
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He came to us with wandering tales of wild things
Savage, biting, slashing, tearing
A violent voice boomed becoming of beasts
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1814 6 3
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That’s what she left behind, and I put it in my mouth and swallowed.
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1814 6 4
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But who am I kidding. We aren’t in love. Being in love is for high schoolers or middle aged divorcees exploring their sexuality. Our love is real, sweaty, backwards, forwards, angry, trusting. We love as you only can after seeing someone at their best and
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1814 5 4
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While space and time opened up for us, the ground accelerated its attempts to devour the astronaut. Grasses grew up around his edges. Seeds propagated in the folds of his suit, tendrils found their way into the mysterious holes for the missing hoses that
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1814 1 1
|
A CEO would also be a an EOC, only inside-out and backward. But upside-down, both are still what they are.
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1814 4 0
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She collects slowly
The pieces
Each one
Heavy with grief
Precious and
Also bitter
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1814 13 2
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The child closed her eyes again. Outside was sparkling, sharp looking, when she blinked he’d be here, like when she went to sleep and found outside had been whitened with snow. She closed her eyes and opened them, then closed them again. When she opened
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1813 7 6
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I'm a librarian. A reader. I identify as a four-eyed person. I've always worn glasses. I got my first pair in the second grade. It was a miracle! The blurry world I'd inhabited all my life suddenly came into focus. I could see the blackboard! I could read street signs! I…
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1813 11 9
|
Librarians are hiding something. What is it?
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1813 1 1
|
A famous author and an inspired writer meet at a coffee shop, both looking for inspiration. The patrons there don’t know if this meeting is by accident or design, but they are in awe of Fame.
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1813 10 7
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Uncle Tee, a dog handler, taught all the camp children their basics: how to "make change" from a $10-bill, how to slip a hand into ladies' purses, and how to make their smiles warm and endearing.
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1813 2 2
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Her wrinkles came into focus, the sort of old woman's face photographed for coffee tables and art galleries and corporate boardrooms, for prize juries and grant selection committees, and Luc searched his formidable memory for an exact match. Over the long, tedious…
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1813 8 4
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In the middle of the floor squatted a sway-backed butcher block that appeared to have been chopped upon with such force as to make it cower.
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1813 11 9
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What if I never feel like a real artist? What does it even mean to be a "real" artist? What if nobody ever cares about what I make?
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