Stories tagged death

Abre La Puerta

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My daughter, now four, can count to 15 in Spanish. How old are you? Cuatro. How old will you be on your birthday? Cinco. She likes Dora and thinks Diego is weird.

The Death of Me

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Compose yourself children...

in pseudonym of her sex

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(un mort petit) If I told you the moment of death is just that, a moment nothing more

Talking To Flowers

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He is quiet, as if acknowledging what really happened on that snowy road. He’s not really there, yet he is, like a shadow in my peripheral vision—fleeting, yet watchful.

The Untimely Death of the Old Forgotten Man

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I watched haunted as my pearl tooth circled the rotten porcelain sink. I could feel my hair thinning and my pale skin suddenly felt too loose.

Abre La Puerta

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My daughter, now four, can count to 15 in Spanish. How old are you? Cuatro. How old will you be on your birthday? Cinco. She likes Dora and thinks Diego is weird.

Hardly Used Tractors

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Now Carver Smithton has a paunched belly as stout as the beer that fills it. His upper lip is thick, fat and flat like a caterpillar run over by a semi on Highway 17.

London Fog

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I stumbled out of the Ten Bells pub, still a bit tipsy from the absinthe, but had a clear vision of what I wanted to have happen this night. The air was cold on my rosy cheeks, so I shielded my face…

Kamikaze Birdsongs

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Twisting and twirling, nearing velocity terminal, the wishbones in their chests rise and fall with the cadence of different bird songs calling. As they whistle down each is distinctively screaming.

LEAVE THEORY AFTER THE UNGODLY SNOW

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Their crush moves to open underfoot a hatred for fire-colors, same when animals bed down and smell ashes dreaming,

Splinter Off

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When we lived in the attic we were make-believe.

The Widow's Morning

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Whispers flew, like wild darts across the room. I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. Right then, it wasn’t my job to figure things out; it was my job to cry.

Boysenberry Jam

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The pantry door squeaked slightly when opened. It sounded like an admonishment. After all, he wasn’t hungry. But he stood there, in his threadbare socks and drawstring pants, staring at the life she had accumulated for them.

World Trade Center

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I can feel the souls of those who perished here They’re still here like old kites hanging in the sky tattered, but they won’t come down or can’t come down just yet because they haven’t fulfilled their unborn promises t

DING!

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He tapped his foot, swished his hips, swaying across the worn tile floor with an invisible partner in his arms, the batter-coated spoon still clutched in his right hand, momentarily forgotten. Nearly a decade had passed since he last shared a dance with h