Stories tagged jazz

Le Bon Temps

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By the time the tuba player rolls in from Houston, there's only an hour left until curfew. He shuffles his way through the crowd on the sidewalk, dips his horn through the doorway, and wedges himself up onto the tiny stage with the other four players. Now the Hot 8 Brass…

Bang Bang

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   They met for coffee almost every afternoon. She liked to talk, he liked to listen. He pretended her voice reminded him of wind chimes. He knew it was an ordinary voice, but it resonated in his loneliness, and sometimes he heard her in his sleep.    “My husband's…

Miss Winter Solstice

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The palm trees bent upon her passing stride From fishnet stockings running up her hide;


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. What you want most in life is to make music but all you've got in your repertoire is words. You want to make the hep-cats dance, but how? The heat of their high-stepping feet will turn your words to baby mush, even through Ella's velvet tones or…

My Man's Voice

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"...if you got you some magic, you don’t need you no luck."

Out to Lunch

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One of the paramedics stood up slowly and looked at the clock. “Time of death: ‘round ‘bout midnight.”

Factory Worker

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Hits start, enters numbers, runs the program / Does this again one hundred times / Then takes a break

See No…, Hear No…, Speak No…,

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“People are staring at us,” Cat said softly into Marcel’s ear. “We look like an interesting couple,” Marcel replied. “Of course people want to look at us.” Cat nibbled on that thought for a while. New York City is the kind of place where people ra

keys, muted trumpet nearby

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jazz & spring timesometimes mean the same thingthat thing: im prov i sa tionor maybecollab'ration (perhaps)between strangers, orangeblossom perfume sinkingagainst the shallow while while while--while the horizon…

Machine-Gunning Butterflies

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I was making good bread as a New York studio musician and jingle writer, anonymous back-room jobs.

Binge Painter

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One week until the exhibition and only half the paintings were done. This is how Axel worked best, with a gun to his head.


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On his last day of high school Jackie York woke up to the smell of burning books. He didn't know it was his last day of high school. He did know the smoke coming through his rusty window screen was book smoke.

#2 Feeding Fire (Poetry)

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It is like truth on the battle field. Muted

Sowers of Nothing (ELECTRIC DELIRIUM 1.2)

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We dig up conscience-tunnels, pluck the play-flower of present choice for fun, run aground, past this dimly lit, though not to be underestimated, stage, and open door upon empty door, to nothing, for the lights are a pulse flickering in the perceptual per

Jazz Torn

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Lungs bursting in the alleyways trying to keep with the beat.