How My Wife Would Not Wake Up

By - Jul 16, 2018

My wife looked so light in their arms. I wanted to lift her up too.

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By - Jul 13, 2018

We walked for over an hour, and a lot of it I was quiet, thinking how can I ever be happy again? At the house, where our hosts spoke to us in Italian, our room was cool and dark, the windows shut, only slits of light from the spaces in the closed wooden shutters.

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Five Stories

By - Jul 9, 2018

I dug a hole today. The ground was muddy and wet. My friends helped me dig the hole.

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Three Poems

By - Jul 5, 2018

Everyone shivering in their
Leather jackets
Eating sandwiches named after
Serial killers

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excerpt from “Bad-Asses”

By - Jul 2, 2018

I ran to the kitchen and took the butcher knife out of the drawer. I put it behind my back and ran back to the porch. The crowd had grown, and everybody was chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

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Magic Soft

By - Jun 28, 2018

      “What about your husband?” I asked.
      “I’m not married,” she said.
      “I thought you said you have a husband.”
      “He doesn’t care,” she said.

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Blind Baby Pasta

By - Jun 27, 2018

Pasta Man watches me drink some water and then crumples up his face at me, pulling his face back into his shaking head, saying “No, no, no, you gotta chew the chardonnay like a dog, baby.” I say “Shit Pasta you’re right,” then I take another gulp and make sure to chew my water.

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Four of Žižek’s Jokes

By - Jun 20, 2018

Today, the old joke about a rich man telling his servant «Throw out this destitute beggar – I’m so sensitive that I can’t stand seeing people suffer!» is more appropriate than ever.

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Two Stories

By - Jun 18, 2018

S had lost all in gambling, joined the anonymous group, then gambled penny stocks with self-created algorithm.


Then lost.

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Knife Boy David

By - Jun 11, 2018

There are usually two people trapped inside one sad body: someone who wants to die and someone who wants to live. There are stress lines on a stranger’s face that go years and years down all the way to the bone.

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By - Jun 8, 2018

Gnawed at my foot like it was stuck in the trap of being a foot. Delighted, at times, in the chewy gloom of the thing.

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By - Jun 4, 2018

The moon sunk low enough to wear it as a feedbag. His craters amassed with period, the dead egg sacrament, territories slurped free of kin, hushing about how we are all one on his big receipt.

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