Most recent stories

Kafka, Smashed

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perhaps I am only being transported not for replacement but for repair

The Road

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we were traveling on wasn't necessarily going to go careening over any hill as fast as it was smashing into the blunt end of another cloudless hole like a cartoon cat chasing a cartoon mouse. It was huge like a stone wall that had its own…

The Managers

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The Managers are always to be found in twos or threes, lumbering greyly.——If you pass the Managers in a corridor it's a good idea to say hello. They will probably return your greeting, as best they can.——The Managers conduct meetings. They sit at the…

The Solipsistic Lady Novelist

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“I’m haunted,” she says, “by so many things–earth shoes, amulets, seventies mood rings.”

Swimming Lessons

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I’m from the Land of Sky Blue Waters. I grew up in a lake. I think I’m half fish.

gravelortian part 18

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A poor boy scribbling

My Infection: (Chapter 1 of Milk-Blood)

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“Because the day I fucked you I caught an infection and now I have it for life.”

The Raging River

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We'll all face the raging river, some sooner than others.

Oh, Baby!

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One of the drunk men, a dear friend, hunk, as he updated me, now living the existence of a poet, called from San Francisco to say he would take the plane to Minneapolis, do it, then leave me to raise the baby.

Whirl

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Wanna,wanna, whoop de loop. Hold my baby, kiss my mom, dance the way I used to do. Desktops, blacktops, cut and paste, speed down hills, learn the rules, Sister Saint Marion, married to Christ. Sixteen, life-green, pink tights, Swan Lake, an…

Why No One Writes Epics Anymore

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No one writes epics anymore. Why? Perhaps it's because we no longer share mythologies. Once there was a shepherd, and now there is a Google bus loaded with pricks. Yes, you say, but they are good at math. Each and every one of them. And this is true. I envy them…

you're a james now. here's what to expect:

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fetal position can make a man seem small. harmless. like the child your womb won't carry...

The Unfinished House

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The details left undone let you know that tradesmen, visitors and strangers were not welcome.

Mr. Smashface eats fast food at Supermarket # 9

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“Now God,” Mr. Smashface calls me out by name.

The Department of Lost Dreams

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You would think that a department responsible for recovering readers from falling into the illusory realities of their books would merit an office in a less obvious state of disrepair.

Mother

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He stood in the doorway of his mother's house. The doorway that separated the living room from the kitchen. Out of habit, he picked at the wallpaper. He had done this for years as a kid. Anytime a corner pulled up, he started tugging. Just a…

At the Revolution

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When we go to the streets/ we’ll have no guns

Second Nature

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Women can often be found Sizing up each others’ tits

Revelations

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No snippets for you.

Real

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That was the start of it, the vigils. Every night at the foot of the Gilt Spears a group of people congregated in a housing estate to look up at the stars. Housewives with working away husbands, fractious toddlers hanging upside down…

I/ Robot

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in case something went wrong

THE TIDE OF LIFE

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It was an autumn day, late in the afternoon, a Tuesday, when the last murderer died. There was no official announcement. Indeed, she and her crime had been forgotten. Pancreatitis, her cause of death. Quite treatable, the cancer. Nothing could be done for the gene that…

Coffee Alone

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And pity us, this generation of sighing:

Naked Launch

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I enjoy launching words into space. Please dangle a moment here while I prepare the next sentence. Ok. You can come in now. Take boiling for instance. And hawsers. The sound of words on a sheet of paper. The manifesto for a roll of sleep. Sleep is oblivious to…

Wedding Bells

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I avoid weddings like the plague.

Wishing Fountain

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People go through life all the time with only one kidney, or with some of their female-parts removed.

Flower

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Sitting on the surface of it, near the entrance to its sex, A tiny child sitting up, the flower enormous, The child sitting in the white light That is almost granular.

Happy Birthday Mr. Watterson, Wherever You Are!

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Bill Watterson isn't just the creator of the world's best comic strip. According to the book “Looking for Calvin and Hobbes,” a biography of the elusive and reclusive cartoonist, Watterson is also a world-class introvert. Watterson refuses to make…

The Color of Music

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"Did you see that?!" exclaimed Judy jerking suddenly from her weathered Adirondack chair.

The Eyes of the Inmate

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The courts had scheduled the date long ago but the time, an hour always left to the warden, had yet to be decided.