Most read stories

Long Island Roulette

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We sat quietly in my truck. My lit cigarette twitched between my lips. Samantha and I stared at the front door of Planned Parenthood in Worcester.

the honey ant of Kaapa Tjampitjimpa

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1I'VE BEEN looking though books of paintings and I've been thinking …

Something for Seniors

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For Sale: Clean Depends, Never Worn

Love apathy

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I smell it, it smells/Of giggles and leg shaking

Love Cycle – a serial

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1. How can one begrudge the cracking open of a heart?When the lava love fire loaded insanity of self-control disappearsAnd the raw spewing beginsYou better be ready for the truthIt ain't gonna be prettyYou'll wish you were deadYou won't recognize where you areYou'll be…

The Nude Pianist: A Novel: Chapter 15

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—Jesus, a snoring cat. No wonder Alex put this cat outside.

Day 1 of Composing the Second Novel

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You're All Knuckles

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Her eyeballs are made of fur, like plush little bumblebees at home in her sockets.

The Lookout

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I had never seen anyone die. For first time in my life, I was afraid, even more than when my step-dad got drunk and roughed me up. When Dale Franklin got shot last year standing on the corner outside the laundry-mat it took the ambulance forty-five minu

My Dad was a ditch digger

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men sitting on stoops women earning the rent by working as servants in the rich folks yard

Arcana Magi Memorial Vol.5 - c.5

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Getting answers felt like it was not enough. Madam Mayweather wanted more. She wanted to hurt someone.

Land's End

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Wearing Land’s End clothes at life’s end Driving around in circles in your Codgermobile with 3 good hubcaps. Who wouldn’t want to steal that?

Thick Hair

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He fell through her scalp-crust

Happy Birthday Mr. Watterson, Wherever You Are!

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Bill Watterson isn't just the creator of the world's best comic strip. According to the book “Looking for Calvin and Hobbes,” a biography of the elusive and reclusive cartoonist, Watterson is also a world-class introvert. Watterson refuses to make…

Present Tense

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What fascinates me now is now, this instant, this moment. This fugitive, this delinquent, this indiscreet, this forever elusive now. Now now. Now is now and now it is not now. Now is the adversary of time.…

Six Quarters (from Grand Street literary journal)

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Yes, my old uncle liked roses. Grew them. He had a way of smelling a rose—after he smelled a rose, you are surprised the rose is still there.

~American Woman~

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…like candy and puke on your tongue, the fakest broad ever, cruising like a busted prow, busted wheel, mast and stem, these stately wrecks and rotten flowers of perfume and the deadly bitchiness of the modern woman’s expectations.

Bait Shop

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They wanted to go fresh water fishing, so I had to buy worms. None there in the saltwater town. Drove about 10 miles over the long bridge to cross the bay. I'd been there before. Walked in and a crusty, little skinny man got up from his chair. He: Watcha need? Me: Fresh…

Corrections & Clarifications

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It was Fredrick Miller, not his murdered son Matthew, who was executed Monday night at Henshaw Prison. (the system won't take anything under 200 characters, so this part is just to take up space. please ignore)

Running In My Veins

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They say that inside the veins of every Bohemian lies an entire army of dead alcoholics. I suppose this is true of me too.

So long

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Years later he surveys this place again to post something, anything. He plays "sex on fire," sounds that once fueled him. Now he knows the song is about VD, not unbridled potency. Names and words all seem at once familiar and numbing and noise. He once wanted fame or…

Santa Breaks Bad

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It was bound to happen. Even celebrities can only take so much. The constant comparisons to Christ (people still think He was born in December), assumptions that he was anti-Semite or anti-Islam, and accusations from PETA, now ad litem for…

Sisyphus

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He’s more than a little pissed at all this eternal boulder rolling.

Sarah the Witch

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Secretly she suspected she was really a witch. She didn't have green skin or scraggly black hair, and certainly no flying monkeys. Maybe those came over time, the more bad things you did, the more ugly you became until all the world could see how horrible

Kingfish

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Time stole you from underneath the goldendock. Writhing there, slick as a flapping tongue;lips gored, red, whose gaping could embolden weak hands behind the blazing buck blade, long ago pierced in your summer quietus, beneath the soft shade of a tackle box, as the…

Rocket

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The Chicago to Denver fast train clocked 90 MPH plus, but braked hard on the long curve through town, sparks ringing flanged wheels.

Kitchen Fruit Fly Suicides

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How the hell do these 1/8 inch long red-eyed flying insects wind up in my kitchen anyway?

Unknown Brothers

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His name is Rick Reynolds. His name is Steve Redford.

My Third First Novel

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One of the publishing industry’s dirty little secrets is that first novels sell much better than second novels. So why not enhance your chances for success by calling your second novel your first?

I'm Never Going Home

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After the ship stopped shaking, the angry flashes of warning lights discontinued, a few people could be heard sobbing or whispering prayers.