The first photo above shows plainly: five children dressed in suits and dresses. There are three girls. Each girl wears a yellow sundress with chiffon ribbons. The boys have been terrorizing them--the girls, not the dresses.

He wore a jacket with just a letter; by this conspicuous reserve he hoped to show the others it didn’t matter what you did last year, only who you hit in the here and now, and how hard.

Breaking News: Noted local writer and very minor celebrity Paul Steven Stone joined a growing list of talentless wannabes to bare skin and a hint of nipple in a shameless attempt to draw attention to his current blog posting. When asked how far he would g

There’s a room Full of white And it smells Like bleach and Iron

"How did you know he was a nobody if you didn't look at him, eh? Did you raise your eyes and look him in the face? Are you my wife or a whore?"

I repeated your name like a mantra / and vomited black bile in the sink. / Some Buddhist monk told me / if I recite it ten thousand times / you will be mine.

my molars are dancing, tekka-tekking to the strung-out paint can groove of my heart.

"The poem is always married to someone.” —René Char I've been out of my mind twice in my life.Sicilian uncles have no concept of this,they are too strong in their weakmindedness. The first time it happened I ignored it,told myself to relish the brief,…

I remember seeing five young losers standing outside this bar, smoking cigarettes in their baggy shorts and flip-flops, giving the occasional high-fives. They weren’t even eating their calzone, and I was getting upset about it. (I hadn’t eaten the whole

My third Rule of Success—and I may not have these in exactly the right order–is always get a pre-nup!

I like babies and little kids, more than some people but goddamn, children's laughter out of nowhere (in the night, when you're not expecting it) is creepy. I don't like slugs smeared like nightmare goo on my summer-bare feet, I could do without them in …

"Oh — what is this 'work' thing the philosophers speak of" sort of thing.

Her gaunt arms softly rose, sweeping in front of her with movements that were hesitant at first but, as the music that only she could hear took her in its grip, became graceful and assured.

“He didn’t finish ‘The Witchcraft of Salem Village,’” Scooter says, tattling on his little brother. I’m projecting him to be a first-round draft pick by the National Security Agency in about ten years.

Call me anything but Ishmael. Call me Enamel.