1600 2 1
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My buddy had been in the computer business, a systems analyst. Surely there would be some mention of him online. But there was nothing. Nothing, that is, until I saw the obituary.
|
160000
|
The door shuts slowly to something that’s allegedly mine
and it sits there and waits until I come home
just like you.
|
160031
|
Warning: Open and read before making any dumb-ass New Year's resolutions.
|
160043
|
Many years ago I visited a nude beach. I undressed at the car and walked with my companions onto a California beach as naked as the day we were born.
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160063
|
—Frank, how is your sex life?
|
160054
|
But I don't see the cabinets, or know how to put the 4 chapters he's talking about today into the drawers that are invisible, floating, above his bed he's been in for a year, me sitting next to him, becoming a spinster.
|
159910
|
When Mt. St. Helens erupted, I knew that was the end of Bigfoot.
|
159921
|
Thirty years later – and all the years in between – Alan Walton would remember how insidious it was, the anger that started that night with Quinton Harris, fifteen years old and the undisputed leader of the troop, and spread like a virus to the other boys
|
159963
|
My poems have appeared in four different publications; three have died shortly after they ran my stuff. Coincidence, or something more sinister?
|
159952
|
You stand in the mirror. You see yourself. You stand sideways; your profile is always your best. You tuck in your stomach, you stick out your ass but it's the same. You stand face front. You shiver. The mirror adds weight to your already sagging breasts, the wrinkles…
|
1599158
|
Susan said since her divorce three years ago there have been too many Jacks in her life. Seven, if she counted that older guy. She knew that now. Too many. It was the name and little else that drew her to men. She told me the name alone was like Pavlov's bell. It…
|
159900
|
A woman is fishing in the Seine at the far left
of the painting, while time is suspended and light
remains. One man plays a trumpet. A half dozen
people sit or walk under parasols. Couples stroll
and children run or sit or stand beside their
p
|
159901
|
As the four flew beside each other, they shared their stories and got to know one another. Soon they learned from the voice what was happening.
|
1599104
|
I hold them to the light...
|
1599149
|
the wind mistook your arms for wings
|
159953
|
“There’s no real freedom in this world. But a car and the open road is close enough for government work.”
|
159943
|
|
1599107
|
For you have waited. And waited and waited. And soon your slice of bread will be ready.
|
159974
|
We are all in big trouble. Here's some fiction to let your soul experience the beast.
|
159882
|
Marge bought the rug on-line.
|
159887
|
The first thing I saw was a sandal, but it didn't exactly look priestly. It was golden and glowing, and the foot it was strapped to had red painted nails. The straps wrapped around her ankles, and up her slender leg, tied off in a bow below the knee.
|
159831
|
"I have a prehensile tongue," he said matter-of-factly. "I know how to make you feel good." Such confidence, I say. Prove it.We're sitting on the couch, watching a movie, but not paying attention to it. We sit side-by-side, my leaning into him, and his arm is around me,…
|
159894
|
William Shakespeare (a surname that meant "wanker" back in the day, by the way)
|
159840
|
A short triangular plastic shovels into the/White plastic container filled with topaz crystal-like/Salt granulars. Scratchy sandy sounds echo.
|
159743
|
The print is not ideal, it's true.
|
159788
|
|
159744
|
She Waited for the other Shoe to Drop
|
159700
|
I catch a glimpse of myself in the small mirror on the adjacent wall and find myself becoming shy at my own reflection, which is ludicrous in theory, shying away from oneself, but as I lock onto the few freckles I have spread neatly on both cheeks...
|
159722
|
Why yes I began writing this, my bildungsroman, Who is Mitsy Jackson, in spring, 1974 or thereabouts, and thank you so much for asking.
|
159765
|
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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