Most recent stories

Intake

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so far from home

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Its colour a spectral silver shimmered in the pale afternoon sunlight which glinted on its small red and blue insignia so far from home. The landing stage of the unmanned Viking spacecraft had broken away from the main section on schedule before starting its descent through…

Tales Told near Tsmebrovht-5

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“—but although we've catalogued instances of this on other planets, it seems never to've led to the global outbreak of psycho-phrenias and neuro-pathologies as those that plagued the Tiānxiàns!”

THE HAUNTED MICROWAVE by Stephen King

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[Boy, was this a hard night!]

Suspenders

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As soon as I got the suspenders adjusted I felt different. I felt like Wilfred Brimley.

cell

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xxx

Cabinet of Particulars

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incoming made of dust

Past Forward

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Shivers of desire, bristles of knowing

Another Band Name

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Hillary's Pantsuits

Giving Birth to the World

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Life's a contradiction.

Like Father

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Over a decade of late nights and alcohol fueled anger, and still, sometimes some image or smell would click the panic button,

The Femur

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In the desert, among mauve flowers growing feverishly in the ochre sand, a bone, completely bare. Without underwear, without a shirt, nothing. White as a small cemetery ghost, eroded with age, the weather, the vicissitudes of life. It was a femur. I put it on my desk to…

Here, You Cry

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Once a week the kids at school got ice cream and popsicles. You didn’t, you never had ice cream money.

Travel Time

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falling, endlessly

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Clouds quickly appeared, in a perfect peach sky. Big, puffy clouds, moving together, formed the shape of a heart.

Real Time

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November days

A Poem Without Whiskey

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Is like a song sung by Mickey Dolenz while the other three bop around a Technicolor box pretending to play an instrument. A poem without whiskey is like Bukowski has left the building. How do I write a poem now that I don't drink? And it used to go down like a…

We Poor Splendid to Look On

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Leave us to hide our sundials in our caves— / discard our scrolls that guide no more, / to time our nights to learn if we can grieve / —we’ve too much noise or less than we can hear . . .

'Shit-Stained Underwear' by Dick Cheney & the Fucking Losers

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"We run a family show, here — Christ! We play Juice Newton. We play Christopher Cross."

My Grief, All Mine

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Your brain was connected to your feet ...

untitled

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fallen leaves, broken limbs fron wounded trees

FALLING MAN

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Steve Kramer was a brilliant young artist on the scene in New York in the 70s when I was starting out as a writer. He built little electronic dioramas displaying stuffed rats in various bizarre settings. Flip the switch and they would get fried in a little rat-sized…

Jukebox

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Once a psychologist told me a story

diversion

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x

NG

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So how do I know all this about Sammy, you ask? I’m getting to that...

Barely Spring

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On a business road

Thoughts While Hovering Over an Ironing Board - OR - STEAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS

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Pushing the "surge of steam" button has latelygiven me a feeling ofpower;I push a button anda loud gurgling sounddampens the spiritof even a 100% cotton item,and forces it to be still andstraighten out.I need a button likethis to affect family and friends.The phone…

The Page Turner

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Her hands are swift and supple as swallows, bouncing off the keyboard in rapid-fire constellations of notes, because she's playing Bach's Concerto no.1 in D Minor, which is busy and prodigal and all over the place. She is Polina Olegovna Osetinskaya, a beautiful Russian…

Twister

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“You know this is your death car.”

cleveland

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The girl went outside her door and stood and stared at the sky.there were clouds in the sky. the girl wore glasses with black framesthe girl stared at the sky some more and put on a bright yellow baseball hatshe sat in a white resin chairthe girl sat quietly and watched the…