1660 9 7
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The Girl with a typewriter mouthhas a body like a single sheet of blank white paper. I wasobsessed with the Beatles, she tellsme. Well, there are worse things to beobsessed with, I tell her. No, shesays, I mean REALLY obsessed. Oh,is all I can think to reply to…
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1660169
|
Have you ever spent twilight in a old pasture?
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1660126
|
forced to submit/
to reasonableness//
and universal healthcare.
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166010
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I laughed maniacally in my head at the thought, but I kept picking at it all the same, the bunnies had plans for us.
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1660175
|
I'm old enough to be her father.
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166052
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“You done done sumpin’,” the old man guessed, “Sumpin’ bad...”
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1660133
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—It’s difficult to say, he said. I have mood swings. Women don’t like that. They become upset.
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166076
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In the blacklight of the storm, mother would tremble, spit and sway as the shutters would clatter and she would give away her balance. It was more than my heart could bear. She would always center her accusation with, “your boyfriend is a rake and a flam.” That…
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166000
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Sora rubbed her neck as Azure gave her attention. She did not know where to begin, thinking about what to say first.
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166054
|
She allowed him to wash her hair. Touching it in a wet state, running his hands through it in a soapy state, wringing the water out when he was finished—he was ecstatic.
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166012
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I have no confidence that you'll complete the task. Shit, you probably don't even understand it in the slightest.
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1660106
|
Eight days before her 50th birthday they were married in their soft new pajamas, holding hands on his bed in the hospital. The pastor and witnesses wore protective hospital gowns and gloves; the patient was in isolation once again. A special dispensation from the head…
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166011
|
The room turns red and I start screaming and ejaculating. The whole class is watching as Mr.Smith slams down my copy of the test with his right hand and swiftly tears off my penis with his left.
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166051
|
I want you closeI want to feel youinside me,softening me untilmy borders are blurredand I'm hardly breathing,my heart swellingso big itbrings me to my knees,I want to know thepain of losing youeach time youclose your eyes andgo to sleep anddream of someone else,I want to…
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165943
|
Except for the bathroom stalls—you know the one that goes “Here I sit all broken-hearted”—the only poetry in the house is composed by Hazel, recited to her fawning sycophants.
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165996
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It hangs unspoken in the sadness he pushes through his harmonica, while his hands work the old, beat-up guitar that tries to be a Gibson for his fingertips.
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165953
|
“You’ve put all my anorexic friends on the table nearest the buffet,” I say. “And all my bulimic friends on the other side of the room away from the buffet and the toilets.”
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165955
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This story is falling head-first into a mud-puddle.
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1659149
|
the wind mistook your arms for wings
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165911
|
Later, your father stared, confused, at the empty spot where the wall paint layers ended in the shape of the old machines. He stopped coming in.
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165992
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Dear Sir/ Madam I wish to apply for the position you advertised in the Daily Sun. Although my expertise is in self-obliteration and self-worth (or lack of), and my work mainly in disappointment, I do have much experience in failure, which this letter will…
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165921
|
The story itself is not much longer than a snippet. What is a snippet anyway?
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165975
|
...the daffodils will fling/
their yellow petals, taunting winter
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165964
|
We bobbed and weaved using our words like the sniffs of two unfamiliar dogs in a Wal-mart parking lot. Wary, but sensing we could be more than just polite neighbors, once we got past the normal darkness of strangers. There was no plot to our story yet, but we both seemed to…
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165986
|
in late fall, Rome, sans wind, sans rancor,
sans sand or rain, sans hate ...
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165962
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Chubby. Plump. Pudgy. Portly. Bulky. Buxom. Rotund. Ample. Hefty. Corpulent. Zaftig.
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165822
|
my mouth is open, ready to bite your tiny toes
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165831
|
If this is trouble, please call someone else.
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165800
|
Everybody knew Billy Miller. He had messy hair and crooked teeth that he hid behind a thin-lipped smile. He and his friend Jimmy Rodgers, who everyone called Cock on account of his red hair that stuck up like a comb, were inseparable. They liked to ste
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165865
|
This writers' conference (sponsored by VQR, which had run its banner ad atop the Fictionaut home page in the summer of 2014, which begins to explain both my attendance and this essay) revealed itself as an apt subject . . .
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