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Well, it’s a cold dance we dance this morning. You are up at the crack of dawn and the bed is empty even before you leave. I pretend to sleep so I can revel in the delicious morning ritual I know will be ending soon. I hear you brew coffee, shower, tal
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Canta el Hombre...canta una canción que guarda una llamada. Está invitando a Dios a venir. Mas cuando canta una canción que guarda el recuerdo de un camino hacia una casa sin muros ni cercado, cuando cada vibración actúa como un minúsculo paso hacia ese hogar sin…
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The women of Bixby, Texas, united in their frustration and general thirst for arson, cheered as Flossie’s Bordello and Bar-B-Q Shack burned to the ground.
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she's greeting everyone like she's the new fucking Queen of England with her size Z tits, the sequined gown clinging to her overstuffed figure like a mold she'll have to live with,
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“This is where we suck the skin off the beasts,” remarks the General, pointing to a small white tube dangling from the ceiling. “We coat the mouthpiece with mushroom sauce, and as soon as they wrap their stinky bulbous lips around it... VROOOP!"
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“Stop!” I shouted. “I want to get off!” The toothy horses showed me the whites of their crazy eyes. “No, no”! they chorused as they whirled around and around and around.
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They line the bar beside me.
Talking about themselves and estranged children,
while rubbing necks and wrists,
searching for the pulse.
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It has scent, your heat, of jonquils and lime, of spices seared in a hot black pan.
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When we say "Nanoism is looking for twitter-fiction serials for its current contest," this is one example of what we mean.
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Les petites collines de ma cousine Vous savez, ma mère a eu peur du fait que je ne résiste plus. Elle avait mille fois raison : Mes quatre sœurs ont toutes rendu l'âme avant que…
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It was too late to be eponymous. I was happy enough to be an emulator. But even then, my ideas were nothing but re-runs of re-runs. Like a high-school production of Macbeth.
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His coarsely shaking voice, whispering embarrassingly crass old guy things in my ear, will make the blood rush to my young lady parts.
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... and you can’t balance your checkbook or divide a three-way bill in a restaurant but you can still recite all the sixteen ways of SHAUN CASSIDY TELLS: 16 WAYS TO TURN ME ON!
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I was about to answer when that something emerged from the woods. It was not an animal, after all, but a woman dressed all in brown. She approached our porch windows. I shuddered and turned away. But her coming was inevitable. When I turned back, she
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I thought to tell him I do not love raspberries, but blueberries, but he did not attend to the things I loved.
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You never forget your first mouthful of monkey stew.
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262697
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The Killer Whale came back and promised to be nice.
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Initially, she had no hopes about his impending arrival, scrawny as he was, until realizing that, because he was a boy, because he was new around here, he might want to wrestle.
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He lit a slim, brown cigarette and drew on it. "But have you heard the flugelhorn? I mean, have you heard a particularly adept flugelhorn?"
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She was the blonde one and the dark-haired one and the one with curly hair and the one with straight hair, the one in the long scarf and even the boy with the camera.
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I missed the cadence and remembered the verse too late. Now, that place where everything comes together is a first taste of things that have somehow become slightly bitter, and I was choking on it.
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IN THE QUIET TIME Forgiveness and forgetfulness are words I sometimes think have worth to just the dead; Though envy creeps, I grudge no man's rewards: There lie no guilt-edged thoughts against my head. The funeral march bears off, away from mind, The petty…
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Professor William Purcell, dean of the university's shrinking drama department. Fifty, tall and thin, always well dressed . . .
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Cheater was a Goblin. He carried a long knife, not quite a sword, but more than your average pocket blade.
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and light bleeds into the darkness
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When I walked into the local police precinct to meet with a detective about the scope of my rights, I was thinking about Rocco, the adored dog of a long-ago life.
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... while I lie, cool as a nectar cream snowball,
in my Maggie The Cat slip, painting my toenails
a color called Bad Influence
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(Originally appeared in Fourth Genre, April 2011) The waiting room of the Rosenfeld Cancer Center in Abington, Pennsylvania is my new home away from home, and I'm eager to prove it. When I step on the ridged, black rubber welcome mat and the sliding…
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