I’m in our living room and the sun is hitting the couch in your spot just how you liked it. I always wanted to close the curtains so it wouldn’t fade the fabric, but today I leave them open, like you would’ve wanted. I suppose I’m daydreaming again because I swear I hear your voice. But when I turn to look at you, your spot is still empty.
Continue reading “Cinema by Evelyn Voelter”
Emma was lying in the park between my dorm and mid-afternoon lecture and if it hadn’t been for the fact she was feeding birds with the grin of the manic and magnificent I may have continued my stride.
Continue reading “We’ll Both Forget The Breeze by Michael Tyler”
The world was so much simpler when Forever 21 was just a shitty clothing store. Nowadays, it’s nothing more than a bar off 42nd street, with a comically-large hourglass by the door filled with sand that never falls. I used to consider it nothing more than a cheap gimmick; another one of the city’s countless tourist traps. The truth is the bar was never what attracted people. All those stupid, far-from-subtle decorations aren’t what people come to stare at; we are.
Continue reading “A Little Time by Dylan Martin”
In a bathing suit, of a most direct design, Shelly Kearns was gorgeous and desirable all the way past dreams and, in the water, a sylph of the first order, and with every dive she took, explored the bottom of our pond for odd treasures of any sort, reclaimable for new duties or positive salvage. She kept her treasure of such objects on two shelves and a corner table in her home left by her husband Steve, dead from a high dive onto a half-sunken log that we assume made the trip on the river from the forest thirty miles upstream.
Continue reading “The Impeccable Diver at the Pond by Tom Sheehan”
It was not the love of eating fish that drove Kwajo out to sea, though he knew that taste better than most. Nor was it the love of clawing with his paddle through the powerful waves and currents, or struggling to drop the net overboard and then retrieve it when heavy with catch. Every morning, the fishermen waited on the beach for the third wave to blanket the collision of the first two, aimed the bow of their dugout canoe at the horizon and shoved off into the chilly mist. As he listened to his father’s chant to motivate them, young Kwajo did it because he was proud to work with men.
Continue reading “Dixcove by David Chappell”
The day after I turned 14, I asked Julie Wong to go to the Pepsi Cola show with me on Saturday. The price of admission was three Pepsi Cola bottle tops. We project kids loved to show up and show off as we watched cartoons, serials, and short movies. This was going to be my first real date.
Continue reading “Eddie Jordan by Frederick K Foote”
And always it is this Gift-giver, this woman from the other side of midnight, this darkness that is not taken from. And she comes in pieces, trajectories, soft angles and planes, curves from a world galore I look for in this, her classroom of touch, taste, and sleek terrors wherein she says, Hello, Two-Dream Tommy, here are dimensions of a barrier, the two roads you must take one at a time if you’re meeting me and getting crushed that side of midnight. Oh, is she north of me or south, breathing yet or not, an image impossible to see, yet I would bet on her on either road I find. Lo, I speak out to her and dream of her, spraddled, urgent, these two parts of unspeakable darkness. Do they have to mean or what become?
It is more than geography hugging me, but what deliciousness in the wind in January, trees stripped to the rawest dimensions, oh bare bark that’s borne. On edges of this electric road, crows by dozens the only intruders in full dress shadows, a three-day-old snow crusting to gray, three marvelous, mysterious wires hanging as if they knot ships together at low tide, weighted with more than a sense of ice, sing a song through the keen teeth of a day going down to its knees in her own perfection. Absolve me, love.
We spoke on the phone for a couple of weeks before we met. It was nice talking to a woman again, calling someone on my ride home from work. I knew it wouldn’t really be going anywhere; she lived 3 hours way and had a 12-year-old to boot. Still. It was nice talking to a woman again.
Continue reading “Sarah by Yancarlo Rivera”
Eddie Kidney lived in a Jiffy John in downtown Buffalo. Kidney was not his real surname, of course, but it seemed to fit so that is what we called him. Besides, Eddie liked having a last name and smiled when anyone referred to him as Mr. Kidney.
Continue reading “Eddie Kidney’s Thanksgiving by David M Robinson”
Hoors!
Dirty fucking hoors!!
Hoor-maisters…Dirty fucking hoor-maisters.
Clatty bastards the lot of them.
Continue reading “Do The Right Thing by Hugh Cron – Warning – Strong Adult Content”
literally stories 