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Poem: Zohra El Fassia by Erez Bitton
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For twenty-eight years, Cochran Baines removed a tooth from the mouth of every dead child that spent time on his table.
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Days went by as I stood in the woods waiting for a tree to fall, and when none did, I determined the universe is cold and indifferent and that man’s only hope is to buy wood chippers.
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I went out through another cold still morning erasing my steps behind me not because I did not want to be followed but because I did not want to find my way back again.
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That spring the war still moved north but we did not go to it any longer.
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But not once did we mention heaven. The next day we bought another one.
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You’re broken. Your eyes don’t see quite right, and your hands don’t feel quick enough. I love you anyway.
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What's missing from their bodies is nothing compared to what's missing in their heads. One man in particular, now almost 80. Wakes to the smell of napalm, cigarette smoke, gasoline. Is he still feverish? Will the fungus rot his foot? But he remembers he
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There is a certain stage of sobriety among men who drink every night. In that stage, they are their best selves: they write novels, fix cars, care for their young. Then they change.
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But she knew what she would find. She knew it all the moment she felt the sticky fingerprints behind the slat of her old oak slay bed. The fingerprints that would only be left from a person grabbing it from behind their head. The fingerprints that she
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The possibility for numerous outcomes – the possibility of anything, really – lives on the writer’s page.
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WπHπAπT with its pi signs denotes the way the inquiry felt and follows in strategy those inventors in language I estimate highly.
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She stood there with ladylike maturity; her eyes were frightening with an unforgiving look, visible in her tears that pierced the very core of Oryn’s heart.
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Like a small meteorite, a white cloud falls. The journey seems to have been long since it cannot spring up again, its wings being exhausted. Like a scared and shivering bird, it curls into my hand. Its apparent fragility prevents me from tightening my grip. A unique…
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I don’t remember the name of the boy in high school
or if I cried at his funeral
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Every one of them will tell you I drank so much malt liquor I could barf up a distillery and that wouldn’t be a lie.
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I counted telephone poles and the seconds between them. The old highway cut straight through the sand and it seemed the road would never end. No curves. No hills. Just poles.
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“Maybe she will like Boo-Ba-Loo, the large male from America,” they said. So they shipped in Boo-Ba-Loo and put him in the pen next to Ding-a-Ling.
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Their breath stank inside my lungs and tamped down the very minute amount of remorse I had left. It was replaced with contempt. Their fear warmed my cold sensibility as I steeled myself.
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Maybe you could buy a Volunteer,” Carol suggested.
Ma huffed. “You know we don't have the money for that. And besides I never liked the idea of Volunteers — taking advantage of the poor like that.”
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Elvis at a Starbucks. Some graphic words.
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The clickity-click of poker chips spills out to the six of us waiting for a table. We're old college buddies, drunk since one this afternoon, sporting the ball caps our wives never let us wear. We brag. About our poker wins, how easy it is to read each other, how we can…
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A young woman in shorts removes her sunglasses, putting them on top of her head in order to study a little girl sitting on her father’s lap on the bus.
“I want to get me one of those,” she’s says, smiling. Dark eyes, her dark hair wet and hangin
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Mr. Kerouac is the author of On the Road, Big Sur, and numerous other works that defined the Beat Generation, and he's the foremost drunken writer of his time to embrace conservatism.
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The sign that informs tourists that there is
no access to the Hollywood Sign is the
most ignored sign in all of Los Angeles.
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In the LOL playground environment of Facebook, one man's world is turned upside down when a new female friend suddenly blocks him from any further communication.From Chap.1: "I kept thinking there was something familiar about you, and now I remember."
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I made him stop at an AM-PM. We bought a bag of barbecue chips and a yellow rose. Those days, we were testing our keels, sloshing against whatever rose most wicked. On the way to Beth Anne's apartment, we passed a man on the shoulder heaving a couch back
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Christmas is here and there's work to do.
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It drifted into the sea, I say, when you ask me about home. You’ve only known me for a few moments, so you’re not sure how to gauge me. You laugh, and make an Annabel Lee reference. The English teach in me wants to hug you. The New Jersey in me wants
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