Most read stories

Ink Play

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Lying on a high seat in the south study, this is what I see:

Watching Stanley Kowalski in the TV Room of Belle Haven

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That streetcar named Desire, it don't hardly stop for me no more. Leastwise not while I'm awake, and I don't have to be telling no nosy aides why I make them noises in my sleep.

Settled

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Zusman snored on the sofa as Motel gathered his belongings in the dark. He moved quietly as had become his custom in the mornings. Initially he had tried not to wake his nephew on his way to work in the…

You're Breathing My Relapse

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I was an alcoholic for ten years, starting in my early twenties and continuing into my thirties. Then finally, after many attempts, I got myself straightened out. My son's birth finally did it for me. It wasn't like a switch flipped in the delivery room…

The Bounce

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I. Two cancer scares since June, one came up nothing the other nothing much. (My breasts are dense: I know all about moles— little bastards don't have to get sun to go nuts.) My manuscript travels ether to…

Soft Coral Siren

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I didn't feel when you cut out my spine I'd been throwing up all night couldn't even smell the rust …

Threshold

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But we proliferated back

Carrying you

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I woke up to the humming of an empty space in the shape of a sweatshirt,

Abyss

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When Lois finally found him down there, Johnny was wedged between a large rock and the trunk of an old, long since fallen, cottonwood tree. She said as she got to him, she heard his gurgling breath, fighting fiercely to stay alive. When she saw the deep, gathering, red…

Headlines

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He brought me flowers once, three wilted carnations I put in water, though the sight of them made me uneasy. He brought me pictures once, too, of three sisters—ten, twelve, fourteen—straddling dirt bikes. He touched my shoulder once, as I edited pictures …

Open Wounds

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Where the skin had grazed, shredded by the coarse gravel to form scabs, fascinated Jack. It reminded him of his youth and his own grazes, scratches and stitches. As a boy he imagined scabs were rough foundations of igneous rock, blood like lava pouring th

Threshold

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He wasn't sure if I was joking.

trenton

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his word

The Listener

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They think because you are a writer you are not much of a listener and so you begin to recognize all of the great opportunities to be much more of a listener and then you shut your trap and get sucked into the whorls of her big wet brown eyes with Italianate…

Oopsy-Daisy!

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[This story definitely WON'T be appearing in this month's "Alfred Hitchock's Mystery Magazine"!]

Thanking Harry

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At a candlelit table near the back of the restaurant, Jack and Lois greeted the waiter as he delivered their drinks, a diet coke for him, and for her, a vodka and cranberry. He apologized for the slow bar service and promised to return in a moment to take their…

Snapshots

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On a street-lit night in Jeddah.

The Sound Of...

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What if Everything I have been doing Hasn’t been heard By anyone?

Flutter in Night

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Have you heard this yet? The daughter flew home to care for the mother, whose pump is still tick ticking—though now with aid—which means she leaves the kitchen when the microwave clicks on.

Invoking Fire

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We talk of his time in the jungle.

George Burnett's Secret

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He roared back at her, shaking his empty gun in his right hand, waving his left hand in the air. “I am George Burnett, esquire, late of Balliol College, Oxford! I am a hunter, a killer of pigs! I do not fear you, bear; take the pig and be content!”

Afterworld

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We suffer// the one agony only- of having no longer/ any physical effect nor way to speak/ of what we watch to those we watch.

11am, Sunday, in Green

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The eyelid of the sink blinks silence. The clocks choke on smoke.

My Belgian Waffle-Hound: Song

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I was walking my Belgian Waffle-Hound Past the Belgian waffle shop I found a penny on the ground And did a tiny little hop I spun around and went inside The Belgian waffle shop And bought a little waffle For my Belgian Waffle-Hound

Bearded Lady

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Nights this husband returned home still hungry sometimes, even for her forearms against his own

No Word for Enchantment

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fanned lashes on rouged cheek a glamorous sea creature in violet perfume

The Wind Is Going To Take You

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Before the railroad tracks are blown off by the wind, the wall tiles morph to trace 34th Streetwhile a silver balloon emerges from the end of the tunnel. A child’s hand reaches out for the gleam and she, the woman in a black-dress with a mandarin collar,

These Gothy Days

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(haiku)

Tumblring

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most interesting, i investigate all of this at 1:15 on a thursday morning and consistently contradict my assumptions while simultaneously validating them.

1935 What I Wanted

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embarrassment