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He started to concentrate on the music again. It was the album with the crazy picture of Monk on the cover, with a machine gun over his shoulder, a tied-up Gestapo officer and a female resistance fighter standing next to—a cow.
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His Danger Pistol was out of bullets, his Bag of Tricks was empty, and he wasted his last can of Antimatter back at the lab. All he had was his Charm and his wits. Charm wouldn't last forever, and he'd always come up a little short in the wits department.
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...come come come come...
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The boy stared out his window, noting the suns slow and eventual passing behind the distant mountains. He saw his face reflected in the window pane and turned away. His shadow loomed…
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Inspired by "The Dunwich Horror"" by H.P. Lovecraft, this excerpt concerns the events in the life of a man who is coming to the awareness that his son has followed in his grandfather's steps and begun the process of conjuring a spirit that killed him.
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Under a conspiratorial moon… the shovel my silent partner… organ-less torso to the worms.
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it is heavier than it looks with edges smoothed by the passage of time
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1164 2 1
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It was night. It was Massachusetts. It was an interview in a snowstorm
that Detective Vivian Diaz wished would go away.
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circumstances//
squeeze the heart so hard/
that you should die but don’t.
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Deny yourself that pleasure
For my sake; that feeling beyond measure
That you get when you finally, and with much angst,
Decide not to be a bitch, to a round of general thanks.
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Mother hated a crucifix. Graven, she said. Evidence that Catholics weren't saved, just stuck in ceremony. Jesus had risen and anyone who had to pray in Latin, count beads or confess to robed men who took orders from a monarch didn't know…
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She sat Indian style against the strawberry tree. In her hand she held a little mirror and a note that her father left her that morning.
What a night, eh? See you in the morning.
That’s what it said.
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these dead letters for you... and then they withdrew...
something happened on the way to shabriz...
my fingertips fell on their knees.
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There are no inspirations./
There are only the things I like/
and the much more numerous//
things I do not like.
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Will it take the rise/
of cyber guerillas to finish it/
in the way it should be finished
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Tombstone is a tongue of stone in the mouth of the desert. The desert is a living entity. It speaks. It speaks with a tongue of stone. It says: Tombstone.
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1163 2 0
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"Oh, God. What do we say?..."
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My work is not that sexy and glamorous kind of time travel that you see in the movies with Deloreans and phone booths.
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1163 2 2
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I am young. This is years before I start to hide my accent.
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Man, this bearskin rug was a big, awkward sonofabitch on his back....
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Fear I’ll be stuck here without a ladder
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"Is all life suffering?" Miss Ang asked as she parked in front of the brothel. The concrete monstrosity stood humble and lost in appearance, but the locals knew what transpired there, as did the truckers and businessmen that frequented the Phetkasem Highw
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rheumy eyes wink, gnarled hands pantomime
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"Which way ought we to go from here," he asked.
She smiled again, "that all depends on where we want to get to." He nodded but didn't laugh so she sighed and strolled around the room, tuning and looking and considering her options.
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If I should stumble into cheerfulness/
remind me of all the business models
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1163 3 2
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Boil (n.)––1. Pus-filled pustule inflammation of the skin, usually painful. 2. Slang boiled pus, bucket of (n. phrase)“Your asshole brain is a bucket of boiled pus.” (see also pus, SCOTTISH derogatory term for face.
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1162 0 0
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Mort’s hand-mind suffered electrifying-absence-emptiness; no wife.
|
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“In other words you're going to lie through your teeth..."
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