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Sally knows the situation: if your name's on the list you can't come in. If they try to walk past her, swipe their card on the electronic barrier's scanner, instead of a short benevolent bleep and the gate sliding open, it will fail. The hapless individua
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one season slips into another
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Mary had no shoes. She told me they were stolen by someone at the shelter and I believed her because she stood there outside the Arlington T stop in a pair of tube socks. She told me she wasn't asking for money. She told me the shelter was serving seafood today so her…
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she lays there
wrapped in his baseball sheets
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He is sleek with hearts and I see a different name etched onto each one.
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“Honorable condominium association members,” the leader begins. “I apologize for not having a PowerPoint slide show tonight, but me and my muchachos travel light.”
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my time there was not one afternoon not / one river not one tunnel not one falling
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He kept one scarf. It was the scarf that she would tie around his eyes to play with him, long, until he was in his teens. A silly game that made her happy and he squirmed with delight until he got too old. She did not want him to see her, only to know if
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The cell was crowded, barely enough room to swing a cat.
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We played and had joy. As the seasons changed in that peripheral world, we did not feel it. We only saw the snow a bit, only felt the wind a bit, we were not really in it. We still kept ourselves busy. There was something that I did begin to notice. I cou
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She sees her mother the Sunday after Zoe discovered her seven-week-old creation, like a chewed gingerbread man with red icing, in the toilet bowl beneath her.
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"The food tastes kind of...off."
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Other pathways are more satisfactory. They are more closely attuned to music of the other world. Even so, the heat eventually burns them up.
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If I had slept a little longer, I/
would not have seen this rarity at all.
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He almost died, but hasn’t been this much alive ever.
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“C'mon Billy, don't be s-s-s-s-scared.' said the voice coming from under the bed. Billy looked over the side and saw a pale white, bony right hand with it's forefinger beckoning him protruding out from below. The nails were yellowed and cracked. And long. Very, very…
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an artist sits in the sun
moving fingers through long hair
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Our lives are lived backward in memory...
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A meaningful conversation Subdued the huge Toys “R” Us question mark Standing sun-bleached and sprinkler-dirtied In our flowerbed On the patio Explode your fanny pack, A clinking most dangerous The Mysterious: Its …
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Performed October 21-22, Gallery 263, Cambridge, Mass. Kathy-Ann Hart, the Hostess; Ryan Wenke, Ubu; Tyler Catanella, Alfred Jarry; the author--technician.
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I caught a fragment of a charged argument as I passed them. The young man said, “Well, I am talking about love.” And the young woman with equal volume checkmated with, “Well, I am talking about money.” Though their lives were none of my business, this exc
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Samson was also somewhat in hopes that his son Jason would become engaged in this minor capitalist enterprise and 'turned around' in his life.
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This was not a good sign, comforting gestures from strangers were bad omens.
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and then he began to sing, along with the ghostly villagers
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My anger over yesterday's argument with you slipped from memory when I felt the first of the two hundred bee stings, each tiny jab another burst of brilliant pain, and each little attack another reminder to watch where I'm walking.
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