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"Commander of the Armies of the Four Winds" concerns a nightmare endured by Commander Daniel Bennett of the San Diego Police Department after he is assigned to recover the stolen Necromancer Artifact, which purports to invoke nefarious spirits imprisoned
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I remember going out to a restaurant with some guy and a friend of mine who brought her little boy along. And suddenly her boy said, “I want to hear the man talk.” Well, that stopped us. Smart kid, I thought. He was fed up hearing her women friends talk
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I figured he knew what he was doing–he was the crazy one, after all, not me–so we took turns snorting lines of equal volume.
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He's got a rager for Casablanca, the old Bogart and Bergman classic. I can't snap him out of it.
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I wrote a poem and asked a professor to read it. / He said: IMAGE IMAGE IMAGE IMAGE / like a mad man on meth, foam running down / his mouth crowded with sharp, shimmering teeth.
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I go with the wind, like the smoke of this Marlboro red as it dances among the palm trees.
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The whole scene smells like paranoia.
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how enthralled might you be, or how much appalled,/plucked from a fresh dream that had just grown serene?
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Welcome to the world of (un)reality television. He/she who dies with the most stories wins. Another kind of religion. The Church of Being Famous For Whatever.
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For the camera
she smiles
otherwise not
and
only when she is
standing beside him
But for the camera?
for the crowd
for posterity
yes
For their children
for the future?
yes, again yes
a thousand times
until her face
be
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Reams of saggy bunting intersect the streets.
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So, my wife got fired from her job for being three minutes late five times. But he had it in for her, the fatty boss. He was lazy and she was smart, in line for his job. And she had a workman's comp case against the hospital—she'd slipped in pudding in the cafeteria…
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the small break of consciousness that is my dreamswaterso much wateri can never forgive the watertoo many tears
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perhaps I am only being transported not for replacement but for repair
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That is a six-word story. Notice that the meaning does not change with the word count. Syllabic count: pentameter (ten). Keep these commas.
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Azure understood now. She felt it there as she remembered what she told Sora after her ordeal with the domed creature.
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There were six people on the bridge, myself included, and we were making our way across when something exploded—it was more a rifle shot than explosion, actually—and it cut like a razor through the delicate fabric of the moment.
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Every night she waited for that magical hour when her breath was quick and her heart was loud rushing in her ears 8:04 or sometime 8:20 either way she knew the voice she would hear of her beloved was coming any minute now and so she was…
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Crass, vulgar, boorish, impaired, angry, depressed, jealous, regretful.
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I’m starting to feel more interested in my savings account.
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He bounds like a lunar explorer into the Edinburgh Castle, the goofy porcelain busts glaring at him with contempt.
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Ok, so I know this guy, he's a friend of mine. A good friend, even though I think he's left too big a tip on the bar more than once. His name is Frank.
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Every day from my window I saw John Brigham's dog making its way across my field. The dog picked carefully through the shorn corn stubble taking the same route, I'm guessing, it took when the stalks made a shaded rustling forest. There is a narrow path…
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a soft wooden clatter, wind-battered reeds/bound to the banks of ditches rank,/ill-purposed waters slide into low swamps/whose waters into rivers seep and crawl.
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Azure lowered her head, nearly burying it in the window, watching the helicopter land.
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I am young. This is years before I start to hide my accent.
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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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Whatever it is, the night vibe feeds off that disadvantage, nibbles at the desperation of those who come here.
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I suggested when we passed the flesh shack that we turn around and that I go in and say to the sex workers that the Russians are fetching $3.5K per hour in Manhattan and it's private, unlike there at that road-side shack.
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hangs inverted and
begins a swirling motion,
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