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Blood had soaked through his Converse All-Stars, and into his cotton sox. It was the smell of metal, of iron more specifically, that nudged his mind out from the fog of shock and denial, closer to the reality of his circumstances.
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In closing, Your Honor:After the interview Bad Blake, a/k/a "Otis" takes "Miss" Jane Craddock back to his hotel, ties her up, and gives her a Cleveland Steamer. For reference, please refer to my Brief, Exhibit A, showing a thespian named Ronald Jeremy…
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I know this is going to sound crazy, possibly because it is crazy, but still, please hear me out. I'm a relatively sane person. Sane as any of you, or I was. Just, what I'm saying is that anything that happened to me could happen to you, and you might do the same things I…
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That Loving Feeling
How do I love thee?
I love the bulge
of your breast
along the inside
of my upper arm
when you lie on top
kissing me
I love
feeling the movement
of your nipple
along the tender skin
there
It
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The fish would need a name, but she didn’t know how to tell if it was a boy or a girl. Did fish have penises?
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I'm going up and down elevators all over the Financial District and I have no office.
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Lake Berryessa, CALIFORNIA It was dusk on the 27th of September when the Stocky Man finished his work and trudged casually back across the…
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Her fingers scampered over the table, practicing the deft stitching of the basilar artery.
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I’m lying on the floor curled up in the foetal position and about six people are stamping on me. [...] It’s really confusing down here, what with all the kicking.
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From a window, the young Pole Krzysztof Penderecki saw resistance fighters hanged by Nazis...
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“Perhaps instead of a book I could write lists of words, in alphabetical order, an avalanche of isolated words which expresses the truth I still do not know” — Italo Calvino albumen before child grit secretlyshame august blood …
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The last row of furniture is all black leather. In unison the tigers hop onto a couch a piece, sit calmly on their haunches, and reach for remote controls buried in the cushions. Roaring, they paw at the remotes.
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What else, H, is there to say about heartbreak? What else could it be but our hands, cupped as if holding water against our chests, then broken into halves. Or the picture of this one, pretending to load a gun. Or this one, soaked in smoke—asking for
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Here are some ideas for stories I have had. 1. A captain of a whaling ship loses his leg to a whale, and makes it is life's mission to find this beast and kill it, and make a pair of boots, belt, and wallet out of its skin. 2. Ten people are invited to stay the weekend at a…
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I should have buried him on the saddleback and kept my mouth shut. I'll murder the bastard who did it.
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The words(worlds) have become abstracted through contempt?
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Somebody needs to call Frank. The pediatrician who fixes cars on the side.
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So ya think you’re a writer? First of all, shut up. No, seriously, the very first thing you need to do, this very instant, is to just shut your mouth and take a seat.
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Scott was sure his father was reassured by the sticky stains in his Penthouse; Dad found them when Scott was thirteen. Dad had just one issue of that venerable porno, which Scott defiled with his joy. It was not the Penthouse models…
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“Wait, so you’re Burt Lancaster? You’re not tall enough to be Burt Lancaster.” I popped a hand over my mouth. Wine as truth serum would do me no favors.
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I'm not sure if this is breaking the rules of Fictionaut, but here's a trailer of a poetry tour of Europe I did earlier this year. We hope to break it down into webisodes soon enough to highlight the brilliant readings, brilliant local poets and such that you can find not…
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They looked like girl’s jeans. Matt held them against himself in the mirror. Not that girl’s jeans were a mark against them. Usually, girls had better jeans anyway. Matt took two of the biggest pairs out of the big chest in his grandmother’s back closet.
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...a headwater stream that has never had a name....
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Some things you never forget, especially if they are repeated frequently. I cannot hear her voice saying those words, now, I have forgotten its timber, its pitch, but I remember the words.
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Myrna came home from her new, midnight shift, waitressing job at the Waffle House saying she was sorry but she couldn't take any more gray-haired Jesus-types with their dollar bills held high, releasing a few so they would flutter, as if borne by wings, onto the tables as…
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“Who’s chasing you?”.
When the answer is ‘no one’, it’s best to drive away, like you would from a forgettable Oregon town or someone who can’t love you more than they hate themselves.
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Late spring, summer before cancer. Frank drove Max and his pal Jason to Cincinnati for their first rock show. Less Than Jake at Bogart's. A two-hour drive for ska-punk.
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If you wanted to retain the ownership of said works, then you should not have died.
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