Stories tagged writing

San Clemente Freeway—Late Night 1995

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Maybe that’s why I agreed to get out of bed at 3am and drive fifteen miles to San Clemente, to see if the shreds of my love for you were suspended from the enormous Carrow’s sign like tattered remnants of a hawk’s kill.

Loveless—Kentish Town 1989

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At the time I was selling swimsuits for an athletic store in Golders Green and making sure the middle-aged Jewish ladies had enough coverage for their fast weekends in Puerto Banus or Villefranche-sur-Mer.

Nasty Drunk

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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.

Inverted Memories of my Father: 25

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Hounds at the horse’s feet, sniffing air and ground for a trace of the prey; fox, was it?

Inverted Memories of My Father—29

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How the tables turn when I enter the horse latitudes of my life and wonder about you at my age.

Divine Intervention

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All year long he had an expired calendar on the wall—Bridgestone Tires, 1996—and the same leopard-skin clad model posed over a Formula One racing car, a sudsy sponge in her hand and a flashing smile on her face.

The Whim of Dictators

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Torn paper, an insulting note from a nurse he’d given the eye to as he scrubbed up for a routine appendectomy.

Cork—July Morning. Rain.

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the priest wipes kidney stains from his chin and pulls an extra pair of socks on

Natural History Museum—Lunchtime

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young tourists from Latvia or Estonia take selfies and mug for the camera

Cobh—Late Afternoon Before Rain

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These huddled souls could be a cult of fairytale scholars exiled to the area by unseasonal floods in Belarus...

National Museum of Art—The Taking of Christ

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A red-faced man with a walkie-talkie rushes to her side and speaks into the microphone, summoning aid,

No Communal Mythology (Patti Smith)

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My father fell midst wax and sticks into the rubble of our family woes.

3rd Week in Rehab

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They all talk in clichés, reading off three by five cards.

Golden Swallows, Scraped Faces

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A spasm rippled across your face as the dropping sun emphasized your bloodshot eyes. “More fool me,” you said, propping me back in the now upright pram and pushing it along towards the church gate.

Glory Hole

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"What you need is a miracle, yes?" I say, what I need is a few Demerol and a handful of Valium.