1306 5 1
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Snow was falling. People passed by the window and wore large coats. Inside, Alex stood in front of the window and watched.
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5311
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“Time heals all wounds,” they tell me,
But it has yet to ease the aching pain
That chills my thoughts and heart
Unprepared for further torment.
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117922
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The mother was happy, though. She was happy because she could make him some soup and then she could feed it to him in bed.
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10710
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for awhileyou be a cool fictional characterand you don't worryyou don't overstudygrocery store orangesfor their green spotsor flat spots or whateveryou walk, hands in your pocketswhistling the theme to Andy Griffithand you get real kindand pet every dogand pick every…
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109475
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...the daffodils will fling/
their yellow petals, taunting winter
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86542
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Every day from my window I saw John Brigham's dog making its way across my field. The dog picked carefully through the shorn corn stubble taking the same route, I'm guessing, it took when the stalks made a shaded rustling forest. There is a narrow path…
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94421
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Up ahead I saw clusters of people standing silently under the trees. They seemed to be just waiting there. More than 100 people lined up in the cold and dark, not moving.
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94300
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Randy stood in the alley behind Krasnowski Construction with a loaded gun shoved down the front of his pants. His friend Todd was inside, unloading the safe. And when Todd walked out the door, Randy was going to shoot him in the face.
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1262107
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Behind the wainscoting, the mice scratch, struggling to keep warm.
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91941
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Endless. I find this story.Beginning. To walk.Repeating. Repeating.The Memory. Of snow.Amsterdam. Rivers narrow.Hearts. Divide.Hands. Emboldened.Patronizing. Unpatriotic.Semblance. House held open.Forging. The ties…
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6192
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What counts most is not what's on the page, but what's left to the imagination. Has the writer left room for the reader to participate in the construction of meaning?
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700
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short poem I wrote with no socks on, the floor was cold.
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127299
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I don't think dogs like to die with the pack.
The smell of them rotting brings trouble in the wild,
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115776
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Two weeks after All Souls’ Day, he trudges through the overgrown pasture behind the farmhouse, his head bent, intent on his footing, a shovel his walking stick.
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987115
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Among the raindrops/
occasional plopping snowflakes.
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