Most read stories

My Fictional Tormenter

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Having a single blurb on your book cover is like having a single friend in grade school. So I lied.

DING!

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He tapped his foot, swished his hips, swaying across the worn tile floor with an invisible partner in his arms, the batter-coated spoon still clutched in his right hand, momentarily forgotten. Nearly a decade had passed since he last shared a dance with h

Not from the self but from the Other

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meanings figure into traffic streams reds fade, trickle down the long ‘V' another passing human ear; tall, tall buildings paper poised on horizon. situations gape in and out of seconds corners turn to disappearance, witness follows fingers…

Silent Summer

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It's eerie. There are no birds. My friend and I take our morning walk in a bubble of silence.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation... When I Wasn't Drinking

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This is what my summer has come to: me, out of a job, aimlessly driving around the city looking for places to write, places to read, places to occupy my time.

Notel Nobel

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That was before Cohen died. Castro died. Castro Died should be a title by Samuel Beckett. Once I nearly went out to buy a bass clarinet just for the purpose of playing along with Leonard Cohen.

He's Just Not That Into You -Part I

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“Too perfect.” my therapist intervenes in assurance, “You did enough, really. More than anyone else would.” I know the subtext is that I possibly did more than I should. My appointment is coincidentally later that day, after his goodbye letter arrives in

Luminous Nights

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A great doubt had shut out the light inside us, but each of us called for our lover at the end, and she was generous. Carrying us along inside her over vast distances, chilling our soul with sudden terrible flashes of light.

Snatch (XIV)

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She's in charge.

The Way Back Home

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500 miles all the way from Omaha nine hours on the back of a flatbed truck

THE SHIFT

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"leaves &damage, &shifts of shape"

Searching for Samuel Beckett

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At the Cimitiere Montparnasse he offers the girl his raincoat. I'm searching for Samuel Beckett, he says, and holds an umbrella over her as she consults her map. We're close, she says, pointing. I'll go with you. Then we can visit Simone de Beauvoir. My name is Scarlet.…

Aguilas Range

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When I was thirteen and still lived in the desert I saw a ghost woman at the top of a dry waterfall in the foothills.

A Dispatch from an Enivironmental Lawyer Who is Trying to Grow a Mustache

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Angelina Jolie, seducer of Brad Pitt, tattooed mother of rescued orphans, and the unlikely daughter of Jon Voight who broke Billy Bob Thornton's heart, is only two blocks from me, in a travel trailer on Seventh Street, gently rousing herself from sleep.

Velvet

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Bloop. Velvet's paws hit the carpet. The new man of the house is on the prowl for food, a walk. Breakfast was Rice-A-Roni; for lunch I'm serving Ring Dings. Perhaps he'd like a bite?

The birds who coo

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My mate and I are owned, but have freedom to take to the endless sky.

Golden

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No flinch, no stretch, no letting the cook get all golden about the chopping block.

Half a Lotus

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An Ayurvedic astrologer tells her that she is a child of India. Is a girl born in Indiana a mistake of just two letters on a Scrabble board?

Cherry Stem

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He moved his rotten breath closer to my mouth, like he wanted to twirl his tongue around just to see how it felt.

Limboland

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She was a forward-motion girl. She never bothered to learn to walk as a baby. Instead, she stood up and ran.

Blues Machine

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Rockin' Joe Heath stumbled into the stairwell in nothing but a black Zildjian t-shirt, shushing himself, trying to see right, pounding head. He recalled the old lily pattern of the wall­paper and something about the tattered edges…

Hand and Thumb

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Often we sit in silence and age. We are observers of dust, fashioning ourselves into antiques.

And her child

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The mother was happy, though. She was happy because she could make him some soup and then she could feed it to him in bed.

Roadside Daisies

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The phone rang. Pete wiped his heavy eyes and squinted so he could see. He looked at the clock. It was five o’clock in the morning. He rolled over and tucked his head under his pillow. The phone rang again. He ignored it. It rang again. He picked up.

Denmark (or On the Death of John Updike)

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The impression old Updike left on a young mind.

Poets House, NYC (revised)

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Oh, you can’t stay, your poetry/ Is still out in the world, maybe when you die/Your volumes will make their way/Not just here but everywhere

Out of the Loop

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Ed wants to watch the last half of the football game. His wife wants him to mow the lawn.

Welcome to the Occupation

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You just watch, the schoolteachers’ll be next and then you’ll see shit go down. Imagine what happens when a fifth-grader sees his teacher getting frog-marched through a crowd on YouTube.

Can't You Tell When I Get Lonely?

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“Can't you tell when I get lonely?”, she asks. “No”, I say. It gets awkward because she wants me to know when she gets lonely. I don't give her the attention she wants without realizing it. She moves away and stares at me for…

Lights,Camera -Action

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Gyan Ban Thoughts - This post is about aspiring models.Scores of these dreams get killed everyday under the arc lights. Exploitation is rampant and millions of cases go unreported.This story is of one such incident.