Most read stories

Dumpster

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When flash and bang merge you are, according to the manual, in deep do-do.

"What It Means to Exodus" Or, "Brrrraaaawww"

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"I have consulted the Internet," the man remarks, squatting low, sorting through a mountain of tablets. He snags two and stands slowly, confidently, and I realize suddenly that he is Moses. Two iPads, cradled surely in each wrist, glow with lists.

Winter Paints Nelson County

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It was more than just taste/ more than a point of view/ and oil and pigment/ that painted a store front church/ a box with a cross in a vacant lot/ that welcomed desperation, faith/ and imagination.

The Awakening

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Aura arrives with the incense and her mysteries. Her scent of wet earth, and crushed flowers, a touch of Jasmine and Frankincense. Her dark hands passing over my body, her warmth. A whisper. A prayer.

Summer, 1966

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After my mother died, my father shipped me to my uncle's. He hadn't told me she was dying, so he could just mourn alone.Lena lived next door, Italian, my age -- which was ten -- beautiful. She was watched by goons in black suits. Her parents owned a restaurant. Across the…

Doing Time Outside (novel excerpt)

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If you are a family member or friend of a person incarcerated in a correctional facility...

A Friend From Back Then

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That afternoon she met me in the lobby of my hotel and we simply smiled at each other in the elevator going up to my room where we sat on the couch for about three hours and told of our lives, of being apart, for so many years, then sensing our time was nearly used up, I…

Writing Prompt 5086992075

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Set your three-word story in prison.

Exceeded

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I am exceeded / by a leaf

Suede Denim

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Rogue sits bedside in Jello Biafra’s hospital room.

Feast

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I watch the seagulls making their quacking noises

XAM, PARAGRAPH, May 22, 1998, Houston, Texas

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I wrote this paragraph (the first in a series of 14 paragraphs) shortly after Frank Sinatra had died and during my last visit to my boyfriend, M. He had not seen me write something in years.

The So White Woods

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The sun becomes hot. She removes her skirt. She is left with a black bodice, with white laces, leggings underneath and a pair of twelve hole Doc Martens.

formation of a black hole

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who can quite say/when careless talk & confidence/slips into that other charged thing/so minimal at first

Spittoon (w.c.55)

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“I’m pregnant,” he says...

Friday Briefings

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They could occupy the space// left by creatures larger and more/ evolved.

For my lost child

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and where have the years sped how distant was your youth

Perdition

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Colton nods, without words, understanding the significance of every word that the Old Man has uttered, knowing that in the end, given enough time, we all go down that lonely corner, to embrace the darkness, wishing to be cured of our sentiments.

BOXES

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Lama’s mother is dead. She died when Lama was just outgrowing her ballet tutus. When Lama talks about it, it is with the air of one who picks honeysuckle over jasmine. It gives sunshine, she says, to graves. Our epitaphs are so mechanical otherwise. Un

When The Sun Goes Down

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Though his heart aches his melody seems to flow It creeps into the dreams of all in slumber in the valley below

Buy Me Some Peanuts

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The voice on the other end mumbles, not forming words, but I understand: I am to be the starting third baseman for the Detroit Tigers.

Magdalena

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Magdalena followed the receding tide, her tiny feet leaving no rumors in the hard sand. She gathered only the most beautiful shells and presented them to her waiting Abuela. Her grandmother told her that the only things that a woman truly owns are her dreams. She told her…

The Commodore

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The commodore drives a 67 Caddy rag top All fin and boatish power

Solitary Lunatics Up On The Roof

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Up top, the sky is like a fist fight- fat lip purple and bitchslap pinks get wilder as the tabs kick in. Those hovering lights are aliens! we assert with insistent like-mindedness from where we sit directly beneath the airport flight path.

Man Writing Story With Ears Plugged About Painter Who Only Hears in Color; Black Ink, 2002

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Ready, here we go.

Ignorance

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On the street / The protesters stand / Yelling words empty as wind

The Weight of a Gun

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The first time I ever held a gun, I was three years old...

Against the Wall

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happily fling Molotov cocktails// against ICE agents in armored vehicles/ and sing the pain of their burning deaths/ as triumph against asininity.

Otillie

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Shhh. I am here. Otillie Augustine, from Trieste, an Italian city to you, but when I lived it was part of Austria. Such things as who flies their flags over a city? Not so important after all, after all the losses and the victory speeches. These were not…

Regret

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Regret takes the shape of little clouds ...