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Since I have never found any mention of children that you may have had in your writings, I've been a little reluctant to tell you this story. It may be a touchy subject for you...I don't know. It's a lot of conjecture on my part, but there's one indispu
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At four the dish pit was as clean as it ever got. Tommy began to think he might get out of there early, even without Nathan and Al there. He wiped down all the surfaces in the pit and ran a load of cutlery through the machine. While the cutlery was going through he…
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Henry knew what he wanted.
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When we talked about the lasagna, we were, I see now, talking about different things. I.e., I was talking about lasagna, and you were talking about almost everything but. You weren't talking about the dry, burnt noodles or…
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Have you heard this yet? The daughter flew home to care for the mother, whose pump is still tick ticking—though now with aid—which means she leaves the kitchen when the microwave clicks on.
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Mabel constructed the quintessential boundary. She carefully boiled down her pots and pans, her jewelry, her copper kettle, and the foils from forty six bottles of white pear cider into a silky metallic stew. Mable smeared the mixture onto a burlap…
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It could be there is a little me, somewhere, truth be known. One time in Laguna Beach I slept with a girl I met at this café, the Jolly Roger, I think, when we went back to my apartment and had unprotected sex. She said she was on the pill, but you neve
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nothing has ever happened in this or that or any other or maybe too damn many parallel universes. . . .
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Once, I asked my father why Rex turned around three times before settling down for a nap. He told me it was because one good turn deserves another, then he laughed.
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"What the fuck are you looking at, Carl?" She snaps, turning her head toward me as the truck edges off the road and into a field of tobacco, into those broad green leaves of ancient sacristy and modern ablution. This is not a blissful kind of field. It is not full…
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“Why do you write filth?” they howl
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I play like I do with sister at home, pretend everything’s real, that the cross is heavy, that the walk to Golgotha is long.
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In my dream I am the showy leaf, and you are the stem and you are the strength. I am the leaf turning colors, my face flushed, the blonde hairs at my neck, and there is the deep carnal twisting around your stem that sends me floating to the ceiling over
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"Look at that one," I squealed. It was humongous, moving like an x-ray of a fetus.
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Except, something about Margaret was a little off. She would stop typing suddenly and look up at the plant, studying it, almost as if daring it to cross her. Then, she would go back to her computer and start pounding away again.
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