1504 11 6
|
You treat them like I’m hungry.
Fix it.
|
1504148
|
...painted by my mother with meticulous attention...
|
150451
|
Some things are meant to be repeated
|
150421
|
You were gone, long gone, and I could no longer smell your scent as I walked through the empty house. I couldn't bring myself to unpack the boxes, and they lurked like a forest of overgrown drab Legos.
|
15041717
|
I was out of my element. I was on property that wasn't mine. In a woods with mansions tucked away among the trees.
|
150451
|
I'd have gone even if I got F's for the entire two weeks. The homeless would have homes, the sick, medicine; the hungry would eat. They could not wait for the generosity of Kurban Bayramı. Now was the hour of relief. The children's eyes. Lambs whose bl
|
150471
|
My mother was Irish as Paddy's pig. So all her family. Lovely people they were. Also, seldom seen among the Folk; stone cold sober. My father's family; Bavarian German. Bavaria's the wrong side of the German tracks. Frankfort people laugh at Bavarians as people in…
|
150400
|
There were echoes all around them, their shadows delirious and only existed in short spurts under the breath of the streetlights. They danced as their cigarettes leaked calligraphy across the night sky and she tried to trace it with her finger. He asked her what it said…
|
150300
|
“A shibboleth is a test—a way to separate da wheat from da chaff that's as old as the Bible, but as new as the latest trend in men's fashions,” Gus says.
|
1503175
|
I'm old enough to be her father.
|
150383
|
the sound of ashes/ being poured in the kitchen
|
1503139
|
I don’t remember much about kindergarten.... The teacher’s name was Mrs. Halverson. She was nice.
|
150354
|
Time has wings. They are bright and beautiful, like those of a butterfly. They are delicate wings, and they carry the years away from my decaying mind. I would break those wings if I could, for tomorrow I turn seventy-three, and I grow weary of their ince
|
150391
|
Literary agents, also editors,
But most assuredly not my creditors,
Someday they won’t mean jack to me—
The people who won’t get back to me.
|
150351
|
And suddenly, I have this crazy impulse, so crazy and so puzzling I do not possess enough vocabulary and grammar skills to describe what is invisible and what is visible about it. The reader must excuse me and be attentive.
|
150377
|
He laughs and runs just like the other boys even though he doesn’t have a father now, just his mom.
|
150373
|
In every writer's room there is a bogeyman born in the closet, growing with every blot on the virgin sheet, feeding on the pain of writing, of solitude, the failure, the rage, the confusion, the helplessness, the fear, the humiliation. The narrower the…
|
150300
|
At 7:30 that evening my brother knocked on Parker's front door. When I went to let him in, sweat was running off Darrell's head like he'd been hit by a water balloon. The air was absolutely unmoving, and there was the smell of tar from the asphalt in th
|
1503108
|
Sunday morning beginning with a bang. Accused, found wanting, sentenced.
|
150396
|
Everyone loves a story of love
unrequited.
But what about the stories
of the unrequited lovee?
|
1503139
|
We mourn/
in perpetuity and are inured
|
15032012
|
Our ironies don’t make us happy
|
150221
|
“They say she lives alone out there.” “What, like out in the woods?” “Not like way back in a cabin or anything, but in a little house out there off the road. I'm not even sure she has a car.” “What, does she…
|
150200
|
I have never seen doubt on the face of a Roman general,' he said, ‘but when you looked at me and said “I know”…that was a certainty I'd never encontered. You have crossed the Acheron twice.'
|
15021614
|
Dinner conversation reminds me of the chatter of birds. Happy talk. Nothing real.
|
1502105
|
He was instantly on her, pulling at her nightgown
|
150232
|
Not a fuss, not a stink,
The eulogy, deep, will make one think,
Grandmother, sat in back, will wink
|
150288
|
Light slunk in from under a door, but just a sliver.
|
150232
|
KOSHER PORN is a new collection of funny pick-up lines just for Jews, written by humorist Sarah Rosen, and illustrated with photos by Tom Stokes. It's based on Rosen's popular dating blog, Porn4Jews. And it's hilarious. Rosen started her blog after a year and a…
|
1502149
|
Shred the roses he posted, fling the petals like slideshows of storms.
|
