My friends told me they’d introduce me to May, but only if I understood that she’d been through a lot and didn’t need any more bad things to happen to her.
fuck me here on this scabrous mountain while we all watch each other among sacred olives fuck away desire.
The story goes that Mario is Luigi’s brother. Nearly all we know about him is that he is a brother.
Rebecca and I read Atul Gawande's Being Mortal and talked about it.
I heard about what happened last week.
Oh yeah, that was just—
It wasn't right. I'm really sorry about that.
His family was there. My family was there. My bouquet was made of flies.
Sometimes we appreciate things a lot later in life than we should.
Authors in Flash Fiction International
from the U.S., Mexico, Israel, New Zealand, India, Australia, and Brazil
respond to questions
Words cannot possibly describe the utterly disgusting experience that was the consumption of this bullshit soup.
Watching the blood drain was the moment she knew/ that she didn’t have it figured out."
The tourists stand on the hostel balcony, shirtless, sun on their golden skin and hair or maybe their skin is the sun.
Okay, now -- I'm going to tie this end to the box. Lydia, throw the other end over our tree. Gilly, stand guard over the box.
Tanja and I were competing to see who had moved the most as a child.
“I know of at least fourteen places we lived before I was eighteen,” I said.
Tanja started naming places she had lived. She kept naming her grandma’s house over and over, between every place.
Nothing Works: 1
-New York City 2005
I should be through thinking about it. Ok, but I remember just going batshit, breaking up with Vanessa on the payphone. Hanging up, couple minutes,
Yesterday my mom called me up and asked me to buy her cigarettes. I told her no and hung up.
After the Bombing
Santa did not know how to react to the sight; he only stared. At the granite block, there were three rows filled with ten men, each of whom was Santa. The only thing that
Focus too much time on watching Amanda make cappuccinos.
In times of great dissatisfaction, you will occasionally find yourself dating two men.
I was afraid the security guards would stop us, but they just shrugged when I took the plane out and put it on the field. One of them even said something nice like, “Whoa, that is a cool.” I taxied it from the end zone; it took off and buzzed up into the sky.
We’d do it with whatever was laying around: a jump rope, an extension cord, stray fistfuls of fishing line. Down in the basement, while the babysitter watched Spanish-language television in the living room, we pulled these things taut, secured wrists, ankles, and torsos to my father’s old recliner. Toby was a boy scout, so his knots were better than mine, but I was by far the more skillful interrogator.
By dread I’m inspired, by fear I’m amused. The phrase was cursived on a cocktail napkin and folded into my handshake by a steel-haired young woman two weeks before my 20th birthday.
Cinetopia is a Detroit film festival for fresh retirees on a cinematic tour bus who belch knowingly whenever they mistake their hunched way into an obscene masterpiece.
My sense of regret is the dog
you remember with immense fondness
but that you no longer know.
