Most read stories

War Stories

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I told about the time during the early part of WW II when I shook hands with a member of the Flying Tigers. He was home on leave, and he stopped by to see my dad, who had been his scout master.

The Room of Doors

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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.

Sunday Storms

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Poems reflect their poets. / Mine: ugly but loved. / It is just as well.

The Artist Wannabe

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Hot Weather

Ambivalence

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She said it feels wrong. Too wet, she said. I snickered, she smacked.

Another Dream

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“I fly in my dreams,” his mother said. “It's my privilege.”

Ode to an Afro (or Going Natural in a Corporate World)

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In praise of the colorful flock with crowns of teased cotton candy rising high above Modular walls, stalled operating systems staling coffee and pale corner offices

The Forgotten Children...

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His cheeks were extremely pink but the pink was not the shade usually associated with good health, it was the pink of Death.

Kwaazy Wabbit

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destroy the day rip up the track jump in the water eat nothing but bugs

Savings Bonds

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"May I help you?" She was beautiful.

Downtown

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bullets in flight make sharp, snapping noises.

Friends

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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…

Obtaining Sophia

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My accordion's name is Sophia and she is from Italy. She was born in fairytale fashion, the way my life in Madrid can sometimes be. A great and nurturing friend gathered money from many friends in our village, to buy me an accordion for my birthday. It was…

Like Five O'Clock

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She pulled the book off its shelf. It meant something else now. He'd quote her in the mirror, at the backs of buses that kept her moving, something she'd said without saying. He would remember for them. She'd forget, without him, the way she wanted. Garland and lights were…

The New Lycanthropy

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Who remains after the aching night has departed into dawn and left us to week-old sleep

Ten Beginnings of Stories about Grizzly Bears

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1. The Grizzlies met with the other forest animals for a meeting about voting rights. I was there too, you know, to prevent chaos or something. 2. Mom didn't like it when I took in a …

moonstruck

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i waited for the moon last night for hoursfell asleep with the record player on and dreamedof rain running downgutters of sea glass housesthe sun nudged me awakeand she served me toasthe's not serious,she saidhe's half baked,full of…

getting there

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Seems hot for a Thursday, doesn’t it?

Thank God the Sixties Are Over With! Is All I'm Saying

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I am surprised that you’re not famous already. I remember sitting in your bedroom for hours just watching you while you wrote poetry. I was in awe of you, thinking you were going to be the next Dylan Thomas! Or Bob Dylan. Or Dylan Somebody! And I rememb

Assiduity Eighteen

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A convoy of military vehicles is heading into the city as we are heading out.

OUR NEXT BREAK

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You welcome the new girl by putting a message on her back. I breathe harder until she pops or until you ask me what I’ve seen or until you see my hand turn into a fist.

The House of Cézanne

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Is there anything more emphatic than an ovary?

He is dying

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His only sibling had passed a few years back and his mother was the only one left of a gaggle of 7 brothers and sisters and their spouses. The turning of the generations, from birth to grave, was always a bit like the tilling of the ancestral soil. A new

Midwestern Charm

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He slathered the glue on my scalp and talked non-stop about Harlem. Electrodes or nodes, I never asked which, would measure something inside my head. I doubt they actually did though, measure anything. I've had the pleasure of having wires glued to my skull before and have…

Postcards from a Private Park

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First movement I. The town that I…

S.Hallow

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Andy writes porn.

Three : Sixteen

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We are a city of overworked workers.

Give Me Back My Albert Hall

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“Now, “Pour Some Sugar on Me” is a hit of the eighties.”

Citronella Socks

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a cat named email..

Lassitude

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It's morning, and the cold black hull of branches sets my resting pier, Amid this drizzle, underneath the poignant pain of birches, wrecked By floods of midyear grieving; wraithlike, Dawn's been becked To paint in shafts of faded rose that shades the fen…