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The woman tapped a dark plastic stirrer on the tabletop in front of her to emphasize something she was saying.
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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.
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I glance back over my shoulder as you fumble with the keys. Repeatedly. You swear a little under your breath. You finally locate the proper one and the large door swings open. I hold it as you run over to the alarm keypad. You punch in the code written on a…
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She says, “Put it there now.”
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Why is this woman smiling?
Because she’s the Real Mona Lisa,
that’s why
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She sees her mother the Sunday after Zoe discovered her seven-week-old creation, like a chewed gingerbread man with red icing, in the toilet bowl beneath her.
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*It is a purely fictitious story.Any resemblance to it is purely coincidental. “You never realize death until you realise love “ I could not understand this quote until I met her. Yes! There is death because love gives…
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About 10 years ago is when it started. I was 14, sitting at Pop's knee, listening to his stories, and Mom came in crying. She could hardly get words out.
I think that day was the last time I felt the sun.
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This is how we catch up. I write something down, and you read me quietly. In a year's time you will remind me, though I would have forgotten. I check to see if maybe you have put up a new song, every once in a while, but you don't sing as well as you used to.What has…
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why were ghosts in wry mirrors feeding on hope?
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...That flash of horror as well as the lie that replaced it were mirrors of sorts and both told the truth.
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The dump smelled of the chaos of creation, of rusting metal and burned glass, chemicals and rancid rainwater, wet cardboard and rotting wood, paint slaking off clapboards and drums.
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I began to feed him. All the things I could think of - horror movies, cheese, salt, pickles, chilli. Vitamin B6 tablets washed down with warm milk. Anything I could do to grow little nightmares for my new pet.
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They take her cookies
they take her Coke
they take her Kleenex
the whole box
not the used ones
They take, they steal
everything
They’d take the brain
out of an ox
if they could
Diamonds they steal
bars of soap
as long as they
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On a night in 1952 he walked her home in the freezing rain, past the nativity in front of St. Mark's, sharing his flask of schnapps. Look, my fingers are prunes, she said. He kissed her hands and said, Let's name our firstborn Adlai. She laughed and said, No. Dwight.…
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Fingers of angry red welts crossed his face and neck.
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She slipped into a silky sheath dress, and stepped into black sequined heels just as the doorbell rang. Her date had arrived to take her to his much touted Art opening in town. Reaching under the bathroom sink for a final mist of hair spray she realized too late…
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Cathy told the boy to sit in the seat behind her, and gave him her scarf for his face. He nodded and plucked the scarf gingerly from her hands, suspending it between the clean thumb and ring finger on his left hand.
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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.
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"My boy Jake fell in with a bad crowd when he went to college," Coffelt says, shaking his head. "A bunch of accounting majors."
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French citizens. The friends were all citizens of a half-assed France. The friends were all half-assed citizens of a French stance. Carol was more American, more eggnog, more cream-of-wheat. She represented dull victory.
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We buried her upright, in the stance of warriors.
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I smoked my cigarro under his watchful eye. We were never able to make too much conversation even when I was teaching him at Educenter. Now that David had opened his own school, Evert had come to learn with him because it was much more affordable, but he
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That was some root beer float. It cost us a grand total of $275.
She pulls up in front of Fenton’s Ice Cream Parlor and leaves the motor running while I jump out and run into the parlor.
It was early evening. We HAD to have a root beer float. You
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Duh. It’s all the same sky. Instead I nod, and don’t say anything.
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I think that I write toward death and to stave off death and to remember the dead and to address what is dead in me.
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"You think life is supposed to be easy? Whoever told you that? My life is anything but easy; still you don't hear me whining all over the place. And, trust me, I could teach you a thing or two about suffering.
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