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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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By lunch:
The dryer is an F-5 dervish of mismatched socks, blue jeans and your yellowing college T's, lovingly held onto. For a moment there is a comforting warmth and softness to their smell. In the debris strewn landscape of the living room a carcass
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the moon is coming back now the shadow hovering and shiftingthe clouds a passing shroud I didn't know if I would be patient enough but now the sliver of light is increasing filling in / filling out the circle I am surprised by how much relief I feel there…
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"That it was my stepdad's fault."
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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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and the President didn't call.
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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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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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She was from Tennessee,
with advantages over me.
An upbringing surrounded by books
and sensitivity.
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No preview available due to the brevity of the piece. In fact, this comment itself is longer than the piece.
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Charley calls to say he hasn't heard from me. The blinds are gone, so I take a lipstick off the living room table and draw a circle around his head. I make a half-circle for his gut, a squiggle for the telephone cord. He can come over, he says, just to …
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The consequences follow from here:
the shine of forbidden knowing
the apple soon offered to Adam
the twined Serpent’s hidden fangs
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Sometimes the dirt just stays dirt
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Writing books is like raising children. You do your best, nurture them, discipline them, coddle them, feed them, patch up their injuries, sing to them, try to sell them, but no matter what you do, they are what they are.
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We were careful not to wake the kids & goodbye with a handshake & my skeleton is trapped with your universe inside.
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years later ghosts enter. . . .
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I heard them calling my name. “Will passenger Karen Anderson please come to flight desk Six Fourteen? Flight 912 is ready for takeoff. This is your last call.”
“Mario, did you hear that?” I asked. “We’re on the wrong plane!”
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I slept and it was pleasant. Then there was the kiss, and it was hot. Later you turned away, and all was November chill. Now there are touches, caresses and shouts, Marvelous nights flavored with favors bestowed, and blackened days,…
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Guttering semiotics, The jeremiads of delirium; Drinking lukewarm tea over a late candle Like Hamlet in a power-cut; Affecting his own audience of himself, Hastening soliloquies through gritted sophisms, Withered and spun to intentional…
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The thumb, incarnate, knows/
the moment of the misplaced hammer blow;/
the tongue, incarnate, the cool invigoration/
of water drawn from the dark well.
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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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It was that special ache between heart and stomach that made me stop things. That ache that cannot be caused by the mere knowledge that you have steered your life into a completely wrong direction. To feel this pain, you also need to have no clue why and how it…
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Did I refer to Mark Twain’s typewriter as an animal? Did I call it a hyena? I would not say that about Mark Twain’s typewriter.
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You wouldn’t believe an organ the size of a heart could scream like a nine-year-old sissy girl but mine did.
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Reams of saggy bunting intersect the streets.
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On our wedding day he carried all of the furniture out of our small bedroom, created a sanctuary.
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instead of gun metal deceit, sounds of malice;be a drop of rain.
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Macro-Microbe parked his car and proceeded on foot, which was a misnomer because he had no feet. Typical for Manhattan, no one gave him a second glance except for a homeless woman who tried to sell him hand-sanitizer. Macro-Microbe locomoted himself insid
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Carla woke up from her hospital bed screaming.
"Somebody please help me. Please save me. I am begging you."
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