Above the tree line, the sky has turned the color of a day-old bruise. The reception has begun to clear. Whichever uncle had parked his motorcycle in the driveway was now gone.
Now I bake bread to stay busy, to not think about dying.
Our dad knew about Surface-to-Air missiles. Our mother knew what we told her.
I’m trying to lose my ego before Coachella.
I, I, I, I, the angel speaks herself
And sure, not all moths were so blindly abiding, but that these grand ideas remained a possibility was often enough to console or comfort the moth. You see, the moth, culturally, was keenly aware of toxic attachments—meaning, they were rigidly open to all possibilities in an effort not to favor one delusion over another.
I finger a ring of keys and wonder what doors they might unlock.
He tells me he bought an ex girlfriend a $500 original copy of The Bell Jar. I say oh wow.
Celebrating the publication today of this year's Best Debut Short Stories: The PEN America Dau Prize, including—among many other amazing and wonderful and brilliant stories—our very own "Them Bones"
There I was on Clement Street in the morning, trying to grow another body.
Sure, he’d miss chewing certain types of wood, the smell of garbage disposal, the indescribable pleasure of being shaded by a tree or large shrub. He could wait until spring, he supposed, to die among the scent of lilacs, one last taste of sweet pansy, a final sting of bee balm.
Hello,
the worst thing about stopping Ambien was that I never did it with anybody else.
I did it alone in my bathtub.
I did it alone, smoking in the water, & when it kicked in I’d let the
As soon as I looked into the faces of my fellow classmates, I realized that we all arrived here by the same road. The most enthusiastic people had their cameras turned off.
I didn’t hurt him, except maybe his feelings.
It’s a sin,
to desire different architecture, I’m told
in a cellar not far from here, wine waits years to peak
before a bottle is cracked open only to empty
a bruise.
Burying me # alive
in training pants and # rags is my son’s
# gift of sorts
1.
Remember when you would sit on the floor of my lavender painted room when I was 15 and you were 21? You’d twirl a dreadlock around your finger looking up at the wall of Teen People Magazine
Once upon a time, long before she was on Good Morning America, I met the kindest writer on Twitter. Not only was she a relatable mother-writer, but she also understood Scrivener. This was absolutely
The other day she showed up at André’s apartment in the middle of the night with a red rose and, in the bottom of her purse, a steak knife...
Each day it paints the clearest possible picture of the gulch you’ve driven your life into.
a monstera I brought as a housewarming gift; bookcases betraying a brilliant, associative mind—the LOTR trilogy, a chess board, tomes on capitalism and ecology, The Power Broker, an anthology of gay poetry, more Caro books on LBJ, a poetry book I’d gifted atop the dusty shelves
It’s 2018 and my husband and I are on the couch, watching what will end up being the longest World Series game in history— 18 innings, seven hours and twenty minutes. The Los Angeles Dodgers are
"Style, jokes, slapstick, serious ideas, and shit-talk"
A Flash Book Review of "The Apology" and Brief Interview with Christian TeBordo
When you work in an office (or maybe any job, but in my
Southward
You are the big blue sky
I never thought you would have
The moment when you turn your head over
So the water freezes
So the ginkgo falls
So the wall full of photos is also pale
And
Maybe it won’t work for you. Maybe you are too smart, or too cemented in your physicality. Or you’ve run your brain through more powerful substances than I have. But if you want to try to leave your
Often when I got poor grades as a child, and I often did, I would be told that if I wanted to be the CEO of Playboy I had to do better in school.
