A few weeks ago I was sitting at my desk when I began feeling a sharp pain in the area of ​​my back just above the hip. I got down on the floor and lied on my side to alleviate the pain however I could. It lasted about ten minutes and slowly dissipated. Is this a kidney…

Wherever she looks, Janey sees cats; staring in at her through the kitchen window, peering out from beneath cars, and eyeing her through hedges. With their sinuous bodies and merciless stares, they remind her of her sister. "Plain Jane and Scary Mary", the dog and…

Pieces that said shrug a shrug and then another and one to right with the eyes that squint and one to left with rhythm that never left. And piece after piece, after piece they stich themselves, née weave a tapestry that is the dance your very walk swayed

Ever since he left, I have been alone with the tree. We had planted it together. A green twig in the middle of the garden and a knotty stick, running around. Fingers and branches have grown. Very fast. Too fast. When he left, I sat in the shade. There I started writing, and…

Every time it happens, I think of Amber Heard and how hard you can be slapped without a bruise forming.

At the time, Leanne was meant to be going with Daryll Keyser. She played bells in Mr. Davis’ marching band, and Daryll played tuba. On the bus home from Tulip Festivals, still in their uniforms, they’d do things to each other in 10-minute turns...

THERE ARE TWO PARTS. FROM PART ONE: (Later the police escort the students out, directing them to keep their hands in the air, as they file out into the parking lot. They wrap Mrs. Smedley in a blanket as she stares out blankly in shock. "How is Linda? Is

Marcel Proust had never been to a big-box store before. He was dazzled by the sheer size and scope of the store and the seeming impassivity of the shoppers. So many products, so many shelves, such strangely intriguing examples of the human condition. The people seemed…

["And you can tear a building down ... but you can't replace ... the MEMORIES ... "]

A poem not about fog written in fog with an erasable pen.

Yes keeps falling out of my mouth

I wonder if she is my real mother, if I could get one of those paternity tests and find out if she’s my real mother and if the guy she told me was my father was really my father. I can’t remember him very well, just a lot of him screaming and hollering an

I spend my time sitting on the back step—poison oak reddening my arm—under the eaves, waiting to escape.

I didn't arrive at the Wicked Spoon every night in the same mood. Some nights I would arrive under the spell of a generous emptiness, what I like to call the euphoria of futility. Not exactly a state of bliss, but a dazed detachment in which everything is so pointlessly…

This is what I am saying now.