Stories tagged experimental

I Know the Bad News

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And your disease is common, but it is not treatable and it is dirty and quick and it makes the best parts of you hide inside of the deepest parts of you.

The Etymons : We look to you for answers.

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Silence. Silence. Silence and a well-constructed sentence can be the grandest mixture for contemplation, wouldn't you agree? Of course you : would. Which is why I ask you : these things.

Magic X

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I twisted the nozzle and lit the alcove in yellow light. It was somber light. The light of alleyways in Brixton. I was in shadows, as I liked to be. An empty egg shelf split the yolky top from the dark underneath.


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I combed the ocean for my minnows while Hattie's giraffes multiplied like spider plants, all yellow and brown on the dry yellow savanna, propelled by their gauche necks, awkward in their bodies, bodies rooted to the feet of the humming planet.

Chopsticks Turbulence [!]

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Abundant cream has coated my world.

27 Grams (The weight of the world)

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The strippergram practiced her routine listening to her stereogram a mocking echo of the light entertainment programme her Grandmother who reared her used to listen via radiogram while sat decoding the acrostic's crafty anagrams unravelling its grammatical cats…

The Astigmatism Of The Human Genome Project

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G 20/200 …

The Last Words of a Genius

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The crowd gathered around the dying man's bed, waiting for his last words. He was a genius. The most prolific writer and philosopher to ever live. He wiped his ass with the words of Shakespeare. The thoughts of Plato, Socrates, Descartes, and Nietzsche w


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"She said she wanted to move from point A to point B, that she needed help getting there. I told her I’d do what I could (despite my condition)."

A Memoir

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…she smelled of sunflowers.


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My son is on the field. My son is throwing a ball. My son is throwing a ball into a mitt. My husband is recording the number of times the ball is thrown. My husband is making little pie shapes in his book. He is making little marks.

The Party

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My wife tells me I should marry Pam. “She would be good for you,” she says.


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"Classic" the psychs would later say.


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Three weeks of utters and breast milk and butter:

Hold the door, please.

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We mistake momentum for locomotion and movement for progress. The scenery whips by, faster now, and we take this as a good sign. Faster means better. We must be doing something right.