Most read stories

My Mother Loved To Dance

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I can picture her

Making it Right

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A girl stretched out on the long backseat of the Greyhound bus, her head resting on a bright pink overnight case decorated with colorful stickers announcing the places she intends to go: Paris Cairo Hong Kong Rome.

Coping Stones

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Cahill—Dr. Cahill to those who knew him in his small town in Maine—had decided that his screened porch should be relocated. Wouldn't it be better to winterize the current porch, adding a door at the far end which would lead to a new, smaller porch,…

Proust's Moustache

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My brother and I had often debated whether we could get our father to shave his moustache off, just to see if his sophistication remained intact without it.

Pink Fuzzy Bunny Slippers

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I’m not sure if it’s Punkin or her pink fuzzy bunny slippers that I love.

Broken Symmetry

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It was not until my twelfth birthday that I realised the face I saw in the mirror was not mine.

I’m Waiting

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All carcinoma/ would be hors d’oeuvres/ for its dark appetite.

Bicycle Boys

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They would ride with a mechanic synchronicity, like schools of robotic fish, and appear and disappear suddenly, never still, never trapped in traffic snarls, always finding a way through the gridlocks and the side streets.

Red Can't Even Grab a Starbucks

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I see his look, his impatient look.

Letter to a Distant Friend

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My life is life in shape alone./ The substance leaks away like blood/ removed by the embalmer’s art.

Queen Isabella Eats a Pineapple and Misses the Jews

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It was Christopher who got her thinking about the Jews again. He had left the same day they did, and so all were connected in her mind, as if together somehow. She read his letters half-wondering if he would mention them, wanting to know if the Jews were

Hitler's Mustache

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“Where do you want your mustache?” Melanie asked. “You can have it on the side, you know, or, if you prefer, across your labia, in which case it will also look like a cross?”

Due to the volume of submissions

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Somebody pushed the automatic fuck-you button today, not the due-to-the-volume-of-submissions-we-receive button, nor the it-does-not-fit-our-editorial-needs button;

No Thanks

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But although her culinary plans are running smoothly, my mother’s mood is lethal. Look closely and you can see thin plumes of smoke escaping from her mouth and the tips of two horns peeping between the rollers on top of her head. This is not uncommon for

miranda

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When I was miranda and my mother Rose, ours was a skinless intimacy. miranda in Rose's womb, captured in an essence of love, anger, frustration, fear, the overwhelming stress of Rose's life heavy syrup that kept the bond between spirit and body weak and

Where's the show?

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Henry noted the live hips rubbing against his and thought it cool. It was not often that parts of the female anatomy made contact with his own, still mutating, parts and so there was a brief thrill of the unknown spiking along his vertebrate, small explos

Planet Crabby

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On Planet Crabby a boy met a girl and a girl met a boy but neither couple got anywhere because they dismissed their prospective partner as just plain too crabby. Alternative arrangements were unthinkable. This happened a number of times.

For Carol Novack

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Touching one of these special stones will bring out your own unique song.

Nurse Cratchett

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She would occasionally grant a surgical intern sexual congress.

Obituary for a Poet Heretic

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He sat on a leather couch in the nude, blew smoke rings shaped like wild animals and picked verses out of the thick air.

Big English

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I hit the pole near Whited Avenue a year to the day.

Son of Goya

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I am not against the darkness / I can learn to live with restraint

My Life In Five Paragraphs

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The first punch sent me flying into a Christmas tree. The second put me on the floor on my hands and knees, blood dripping from my nose.

Monet Clouds

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the slow stretches across the horizon

End of the World

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Dear End of the World. We're having a party. Stop by if you're in the neighborhood.

God Bless You, Mr. Rinsewater

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Once upon a time, on March 8, 2011, to be exact, there was a flash fiction writer named Rinsewater who had a novel idea – flash fiction writers whose stories were published by indie lit magazines must be paid for their work!

The Boy Who Knew Death

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As the sun rose each morning, so did the lonely old man with it; a sad limping figure strolling across the front lawn with a cigar tucked in his mouth, lighting fresh candles here and there, perhaps on an imagined grave of some loved one long lost to the infirmity of time…

Done.

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you dug a hole inside my heart and asked me if it hurt

An Ugly Man

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On her lunch break, she dumps Luis for Daniel Towens, the ugliest man in the county.

The Tightrope Walker's Demonstration: Coming Out

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"Oh, abracadabra," she muttered.