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There was one girl from Ireland, with her thick Irish brogue, who came into my bedroom early on the morning before my final exam for my Master’s degree in the writing program at U.C Irvine. She knew I was so nervous about taking the exam that I hadn’t sle
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They shoveled coal into the furnace of the city so the ghosts would be warm for their haunting.
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114650
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Bent, crooked and straight, knifed.
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this orient tide come occident: this roll of wreck and reckoned eyes that fathomless are found or made to find her keep within the tight shut shell in soundings deeper than the plumblined soul these western waves gone east: these…
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His Danger Pistol was out of bullets, his Bag of Tricks was empty, and he wasted his last can of Antimatter back at the lab. All he had was his Charm and his wits. Charm wouldn't last forever, and he'd always come up a little short in the wits department.
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A 20-footer up on skids
sky-blue paint beneath the bondo
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A cruel panther gets its prey.
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She had written down Bailey’s new address even though she knew that he could not stay in the same place for more than six months.
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Did I refer to Mark Twain’s typewriter as an animal? Did I call it a hyena? I would not say that about Mark Twain’s typewriter.
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The inhabitants of the surrounding neighborhood steered clear of the Lot, mindful of its existence, its countless drags of scrap, drenched with the fused association of many scenes and emotions from memory and experience. Left to its own devices, the place is now…
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Through by the sands and the rocks we were going and the lake liquid had tumbled the stones by the thousands so that while the water was still we could see agates and yellow jaspers and other or even the odd and misspent piece of rounded glass green or white safe…
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55830
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Bands:
Free Blankie
My First Dustbuster
Sledge Hammer
Glove Compartment
Hot Weather Lady
Cattle Prod and the Punks
The Cowpokes
Poker
Two Fingers In
Occupy This
Tidy Up
Goal Keeper and The Kneecaps
Leslie Sweet And The Kitchen
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Oh, no!
the lobster’s still alive
staring out at us
from the freezer
at the fish shop
sitting on top
of the other dead fish
and ice
its large claws taped shut
with orange rubber
bands
one eye stalk
moving occasionally
wonde
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“Little Pig, Little Pig, Let me in.” One of them yelled out from behind the door. The wolves always loved to taunt him, itched for any chance they could get to fight.
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If I was a bum
I’d risk everything
for a drink or a smoke
I would beg and curse and steal
if I was a bum
If I was a bum
I would cuss out the Pope
I would not vote for anyone
because I would know truly
they’d be telling gross lies
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I paused in case she said more. Then, “He’s very faint but he wants to talk.”
She leaned forward, chin almost resting on the grey-haired woman in front of her. “Tell him to shout.”
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I’ll bring the naproxen sodium so we won’t have any problem grabbing things.
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I wanted the pain to go away
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It was twilight, and the sky was getting darker even as the lights of civilization were becoming more noticeable in the gloom. The daytime city, with its grit and dust and texture, was disappearing. Soon there would only be electric light and neon and the
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112820
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“We’re prisoners,” Sean reminded the guard. “Prisoners of your military.”
“You have never been treated as such.” Captain Hughes looked around the bar. “This festival is a celebration of you, of all of you. We pride ourselves on ou
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105040
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I'm not dreaming anymore.
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95530
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After he closed the door, Harry stared at the box for a long time before picking it up. I know what it is and I know what it means. Bloody hell. And at Christmas of all times.
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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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Summer bakes the metal playground slide to ripples. Still, kids line up. Sadists, all of them. Lucky enough to choose pain. Max feels it every breath, unwanted.
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I love reading about myself. There's nothing more gratifying than seeing my name in the paper, knowing so many people are interested in who I am and what I do.
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I've been a fan of hagiography—the lives of the saints—since first grade when Claude Dunham and I were asked to represent St. Stephen and St. Sebastian, two martyrs of the early church, in a tableau vivant of bored boys.
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Some of us, however, turn our secrets over in our souls, churning them with the fury of the howling winds of a January night. They are eroded and shaped and fine-tuned with the precision of a jeweler; the deeper and darker they are, the more brilliant of
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Christmas Muzak was piped through to every store in the shopping mall. Giant red velvet bows adorned reproduction Victorian gaslights. Yards of glittered cotton pretended to be snow. A Santa rang a brass bell.
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Henry Katz sat on his couch. He was reading a book. He guessed it was a novel, but he had to keep looking at the cover to remind himself what it was.
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He turned metal chains to rubber with the force of his mind. He prepared tacos for the paperboy.
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