Most recent stories

Who Will Play Monica? That Is the Question

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It is absurd to think that a cockroach will wake up one day as a human. And it is certainly surreal to imagine that a fat pigeon in Paris, New York or Rome, say, or even Prague, will one day take up a pen and begin writing poetry, or wave the wand of phil

Shluha Vokzal'naja (Train Station Whore)

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In my room is my младенец, I mean my little one. She is hungry, Sucking dry air. My молоко, that Says milk, is not good. I can’t make.

Wish for the Left Hand

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Hardly a soul could pin him for creating the vehemence that found a streamule to her pen if she wrote in cursive or a fanjet to her keyboard if she typed quickly and satisfyingly in print, employing eight fingers and two thumbs—

Strange Humidity

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The kitchen is full of old girlfriends. I avoid them. They are munching on cheddar and sharing stories I'm sure I don't want to hear.

Drama Days

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And you lean forward and all of that caffeine anxiety rises up in your throat, the pressure in your jaw, a series of weights and pulleys on your teeth and at the back of your mouth. So when you open your mouth to talk, no sound is made, only the sound of

My Books

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My books wound you. They wound me / too.

At the Station on the Steppes

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The condemned, arrested/ and convicted as a consequence/ of cheerlessness, must be prepared

Renewal

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At first he thought it was a cat she was holding, swathed in a white, fleece blanket

Walking The World Alone

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Yeah I walk itWithout a companionOr friendI walk the world aloneIt seems right to meI don't like the moviesMost television showsOr most popular musicI walk the world aloneUnable to buildAn emotional attachmentWith anyoneI walk the world aloneWith beer as My…

Scene of Mostly Unwilling Players

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Chewing on peppered peanuts, thin flakes scattered carelessly around his squat, Father unfurls his turban and mops his clammy pate with an open palm.

Second Career

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“Just how many different bipeds try to hide their nakedness?” “Only one. And that'd be us, idiot.”, Twinkle responded. “Then, why don't we mind showing certain parts of our bodies?”, she then asked. Twinkle could see it was going to be…

Scrambled Eggs and Sympathy Cards

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We spent that entire winter with shaky hands and shrunken egos.

THUNDER

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not the sky

sediment

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I'm re-invented on Main St. every single day.

Typing Right On Fictionaut, Take 1

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We went driving on Sundays.

That Painted Up Whore

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Some things stay with you. I got off the bus, petted my dog, Nick and walked in our house and saw Mother at the kitchen table, crying and clearly angry. I asked her if she was sick. She works. She said that she didn't go to work today and might not go tomorrow…

Animals

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I folded my problems into pretty paper animals to keep me company. I set them on the Formica dinette set. I jammed some into cracks so they’d stand up straight: organized warfare

Seeing Me

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I got to see me the other day.

Blonde on Blonde

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Happens at a party, this way, past frat boys perched in branches like idiot hoot owls,

Lost Among the Consonants

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I'm writing our initials in black sharpie on the tunnel wall. There's already people who have come before me, hundreds of pairs of Qs and As and hearts in the middle, through a small hole in the brick I can hear the French accents, spinning through, a reminder that I am…

Life As a Beach

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Life is a beach, not an enormous ashtry.

Buzzkill.

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[EXPLETIVE DELETED]

Walls

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No one would have picked me out of a crowd as the morbid one, but it was true that thoughts of easy exits floated through my consciousness regularly. I did my research—the easy methods, painless, guaranteed methods—and felt prepared to do, well, w

ace in the hole

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hookers are better educated these days

My Fuji Red Banannanana

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She had some fascinatingif incongruoustwins of swing hips.Her eyes made me thinkof opium densof fast women without a twitch,the sweet despair of gentlemen loserswith their 19th centuryhandbooks of moralityand witchcraft. But she only wanted mefor my Fuji Red…

Kin of His

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I dreamed that coffee grounds had spilled on my Buffet. There was another clarinet, a silver one, that belonged to a man not in the room, that was clean of debris.

how to live on coffee and prayers

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The coffee filter rustles like the Pages of your notebook, which Only tires you even more. Make your drink strong to Make up for the lack of resolve In your shoulders, and Your weak promises. The familiar sound of percolation And you reach the…

My Almost-Clash with The Rolling Stones (Memoir)

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I'd been living in Boston, but, on a whim, flew to London, England. Soon I was working as support staff for the actor Alan Bates and his wife, Victoria, on a movie called "The Shout", shooting in Devon.

Tragedy and Wreck

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By the time the third car disappeared, Bud had noticed sudden lulls in the breeze, rain microbursts from otherwise blue skies, cold humid calms that trailed him around the junk.

My Memoirs, To the Best of My Knowledge

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This country needs a self-administered memoir veracity exam, like a home pregnancy test, that could weed out made-up memoirs before they hit the bookstores.