Stories tagged prose-poetry

The Glassblower

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His beloved are paper-thin when he blows into the free end. Green tint from copper.

My Digital Garden

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This part of her digital garden is not impressive, slightly sloppy, even haphazard. However, her avatar is an attractive woman with good make-up.

What the heart is

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The heart is a toothed hole that cannot be filled.

Kayaking before the wind

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Within the woods, a joyful muffling from the summer camp, where the deaf children stay for the hottest months, bounces between tree trunks before bursting out onto the lake.

Dorchester

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The wind picked up your house, and laid it back down in a field a few minutes from Dorset

Windshield Diamonds

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“There are diamonds everywhere,” I said as you pulled me down the walking path at the zoo. “No, that’s just a shattered windshield,” you corrected me. This many years later, I’m still undecided.

Three Micros

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He'll tell you if you listen long enough the words run together like the teeth of a zipper.

Newborn Baby App — Buyer Beware!

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They first hook you in with how cute they are. And they are cute, do not get me wrong. I'm not, nor have I ever been, fundamentally against babies—until now. As the first reviewer of this oh-so-wonderful app, my intention is not to…

Fire Opal

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She was trying on a few pairs of wet jeans in the bathroom, the same jeans she had tried on a few days ago, somehow imagining that soaking wet, they'd fit.Her waist was growing fast now, but, if she believed this would work for her, that wet jeans would stretch or…

House Moving Time

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Late Summer. Dublin, 1967.Three children. Three adults. Long car journey.Narrow house-pinched streets.Sycamore.Yew.Horse Chestnut.Stippled glass door.Color unknown. Black, red, yellow?Rectangular glass transom.White ceramic number 9.Bronzed letterbox centered below…

Rising Waters

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Perhaps it was my painted, fleshy body they baulked at, or even my struggles with the bottle; the long nights passed out nasty drunk on the sofa, the children in bed, the fire smoldering, the television on mute.

Threnody for the Living

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When I think of this existence, this lonely ritual that reoccurs day-after-day, I imagine crawling into my mother’s head and seeing life from her point of view. What an impossible task to set before a person.

How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb #2

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Three small boys on second hand bicycles fill the air with war cries, their steeds branded and traceable.

How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb #3

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to the waters and the wild where the merganser ducks waddle by the pond’s edge, colorful plumage the feathers ruffled by the blast of icy air from the Arctic walruses in limbo, their fatty cells keeping them nourished for the winter.

How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb #4

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A skinny dog limps across the ashy field, guzzles mouthfuls of garbage, a bloodied welt on the inside of its leg.