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[This story definitely WON'T be appearing in this month's "Alfred Hitchock's Mystery Magazine"!]
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You are an heiress to drunks.
The statues of your forefathers stagger,
memorialized by gravity, their faces
half-lit eternally, as they reach into refrigerators
for another something
to keep away the cold empty.
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This cell the sole certainty,
all else steeped in mystery.
Why should we be here?
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The old lady from next door had been really quiet for the last few days.
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It was a pleasant time, my thoughts were mostly good ones, with little effort wasted on regret.
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We were wild, medieval magpies,
sweaty and sweet and selfish; and so much more
than we were before I lit that first stick of spice,
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Twenty-two tornadoes tore through Toronto, spiraling steel and stone to the streets where she stood, texting her best friend.
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Contemporary persecution of Christians takes on milder forms of torture like having to explain away something Pat Robertson said, or constantly having to hear about Fred Phelps picketing funerals because he happens to hate homosexuals.
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MOSAIC Your eyes coal-rimmed, busted, burned by betrayal. You and I, knee to knuckle, skinny with disorders and blurred around our edges. Challenged by our experience and the ash of past-love dusting the grate, the state, the…
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I got on the Greyhound Bus at 11 a.m. and sat by myself staring out the window. I could see the reflection of my own dark beard in the window, a 27 year-old man with a huge poem bursting my heart, gasping to get out into the bright lit-up world out there,
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Chubby. Plump. Pudgy. Portly. Bulky. Buxom. Rotund. Ample. Hefty. Corpulent. Zaftig.
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The church pews were straining at the crowds who had come to see David get saved. There was no salvation in the water really, but the Baptists preached the gospel of immersion. There was a certain Baptist church in Kentucky that pressured a man who'd been sprinkled to get…
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[CAUTION: READING THIS STORY COULD CAUSE IRREPARABLE "CULTURE SHOCK" AND IS NOT ADVISED FOR OLD FOLKS, PREGNANT WOMEN, OR THOSE WITH "MONSTROUS, FRAGILE EGOS"!]
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beat them with fists and purses.
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A shot in the dark and everything goes black. It's as if the story never happened.
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You can tend to recognise the difference between a good and mediocre mind by observing how each reacts to a misfired original idea.The mediocre mind will praise the merely meretricious, but ignore the more interesting bad art. The higher mind will value the misfired…
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you might as well be blind
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It's 6:45 a.m. A gritty, mundane sort of magic pervades the air at "Valentine’s" in the Hamilton Hotel.
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He repeated these six words like a prayer. His only confession.
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I was at Mike's place when the call came. My brother sounded so accusing that I wanted to punch him in the face. But he was way upstate. "Dad died today," he said, as if I could have somehow known or prevented it. It was sudden. A heart attack. He was…
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“Gladys Miller!” the dog shouted. “Live a little. TiVo it.”
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I heard this story from my grandmother who heard it from her grandmother who heard it from an uncle, who was a monkey.
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It's important to make a sure sound. It's not impossible you know. It's just funny I suppose, like being in a dream of another dream. All these things could be mashed and tumbled together to make us one big clay hero, someone…
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1. Poor grammar does not sleep. 2. We'll never finish every idea we have. 3. No matter how hard you try, you still might make it into my book
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I dragged you that last half mile Me such a slip of a thing, one bite mark visible You the bear, your growl now only audible When you furred from kerb to road to kerb The December snow followed us Dragging Christmas red behind you As I ignored my…
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