Stories tagged writing

mrs. quigby

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she dumped a whole military rucksack of utensils and pots and pans on top of her late doctor's grave, right in front of his tombstone, but the guardsman was fairly shouting now and rearing back into his desk chair. He was quite engaged with the flickering

The story is not this poem

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The story is not my life.

white church

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Politically, legally, physically, we're all shit out of luck.

The Writing Life

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The author was in the midst of one of his flash fiction stories when there was a knock at the door. He stopped and bit his bottom lip, pondering what he should do. No time for intrusions. Every minute, keystroke, brain cell spent, counted.


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She’d once read the Time-Life Encyclopedia on The Universe and became obsessed with the woman from Alabama who was singled out, by a rock from a far place, in her sleep.

The Comforts of a Robe

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Woman With Water Bottles has taken up a little spot in the back of my brain, her hair tickling her eyes in the breeze.

The Art of Joy

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The girl who was me stands in a sandbox with upraised arms, honey hair tied with olive yarn in two ponytails. She says nothing, but wants me to pick her up.

That Crazy-Ass Willy Wonka Boat

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I was crouched under a bruise-purple sky on a field of battle. I held a World War I-era weapon, an ancient black-iron spear with a spring, and I was told to load balloons onto it without popping them, and then I was to fire the balloons at some unnamed ta

Liebe Grüße

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Left, I see parkland and cyclists and sun. Right: picnic blankets, naked men and lunchtime assignations.


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...have you not woken from a dream with another's words?

Just One Sentence

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Blinking, Eleanor frowned at the words she’d uttered. They were absurd… foolish. Unequivocally unscientific, but beautiful nonetheless. The notion of the sunless hours embodied as a clumsy artist struck the student as interesting.

Gravity Does Not Apply

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Gravity? What does that have to do with writing or with this improbable tether of blue marbles?

writer’s block

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round & round this empty block again & again i go

(6) Compatriots

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"It was here where he’d first seen the girl—Nan. Slender, with brown hair, pale skin, sitting on a bench, and reading from a pile of papers on her lap."

Old Haunts

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“Why do you write filth?” they howl