Why not just self-publish on Fictionaut and be read by thousands of my peers? Why not release my cherished work directly to my thousands of Facebook or Twitter or blog friends? Can the budding writer that I am realistically expect a larger audience?

Further down a small group of men lolled near a doorway.

We Must Save Ourselves I'm looking for my savior on subways, Is he this man pushing half himself On a skate board, from car to car, Singing I have no Legs, I have no Legs, I'm looking for my savior in coffee shops Of…

Bobby turned black yesterday. Not like his ethnicity, or skin color. But his soul. Not his soul. Not black either. But a violet desecrating blue. That kind of blue that use to sit in the ocean, then dried up, and vanished into a big terrifying stupor. He looked at me with…

Of course he misses it,

The real problem, though, was the radiator.

He had that kind of connection / with his cocktails, intimate / sort of like a boy and his dog. // Cocktails have in any case / saved him from the bottom / of many dark wells. /

That afternoon, after I'd swallowed that weight. Felt like a sinker, one of those weights that fishermen attach to their line to make sure the line goes down far enough. Go down far enough there, and I'll find it. That's what I was on about, that I had…

I remember the days when my brother and I would walk down Tillman Square, careful to avoid the cracks zigzagging along the ground. Well I did. My brother made a point to step on every one.

Due to recent enhancements to our billing system, the rate per unit for your basic service can no longer be determined.

Written within five minutes, being a parody of the artless vacuity of observational 'poetry'(By Tedward Weeney and Seamus Spews) The large wind in the treetop tells the blackbird its own voice. The yellow grainyard resounds to the clodding of my farmer's…

What I remember about my grandfather were his fart jokes. When he wasn't telling us kids about how young David defeated the mighty Goliath or how Saul the pharisee humbled himself to become Paul the Apostle, he was telling us about the baby burp that begg

Something’s been eating at my craw. I’m just going to go ahead and spill it all out. You ever hear about Poetry Whores? Well, let me tell you a little about them, because if I don’t, then who will? I’m not going to name names. You can pretty much guess

She remembers the days when she could have purchased every card in the store and found the words to fill them all.

Years later Polyphemus still remembers the wine-soaked taste of Odysseus’s men. The barley and garlic-flavored Greeks. Their flesh a fibrous, blood-hued hummus. Their crunched bones releasing sweet marrow.