I am early, sitting in bird’s-eye of the bakery, reading my book outside at a table. It’s a good book, with language I appreciate, and the plot moves along.
There is a suspect, of course. You read the flash fiction again, examine it word by word, letter by letter, and find nothing.
Diosa met Ruth Sparrow in a poetry writing workshop that Sparrow offered while visiting UVA in Charlottesville, Virginia.
She’d gotten the fun house mirrors at an auction and had them put up in the spare bedroom.
My husband buys me earrings and hands them to me. I take the box, pry open the lid.
That day it was cloudy and there was a grinding noise of gears coming off the clouds muscling into and out of each other, gears like on a car or a freight train but like they’d been winter-rusted.
Sure, it looked like there were grapes in his jeans. No doubt. This was his fantasy: she’d come and peel him out of his shell, not even say please.
He thought we were only company men, loyal but a little dim-witted, the kind of guys who pass the time making simple observations like “Look, a tree,” and “Yeah, that fat guy is really eating a whole chicken and throwing the bones right on the ground.”
I’m back by the pool table in Shank’s, a dive on the wrong side of downtown, trying not to yawn or stare at the chest of a girl in a tight T-shirt babbling about her ex-boyfriend. Suddenly glass shatters, louder than “Freebird” wailing on the jukebox.
This is the way it happened: Robbie jumped out of the hayloft and hit his head.
“What are you thinking?” her husband asked her. In their twenty years of marriage he had never asked her that.
Whiskery tub of muscle with flicks of spit and slime shot from spotted tongue and slick pink dick.
The Modern Man came off the mountain and started tussling. He tussled the local farmers, then the villagers, then the vagabonds.
I was either a bad reflection on my parents or their one true likeness. But my own kids?
There were fifty thousand little monsters screaming for an encore, Spaniards, Germans, skinny little French boys, Italians making wet sounds with their tongues.
Ignis, the flaming wreckage, bubbling rubber, liquified cloth, her skin charred and blistering, acrid smoke, the tiny thunders of survival’s kicks
I tell you I’ve only ever shown it to a girl who I met on a tour bus in Moscow, where I was traveling with my parents. She had bad acne, and she really liked Duran Duran.
In the barren cold camp, you wear a dusty cape and top hat, wave my cane as if it were a wand and tell me your dream-stories, one after the next, your words spun and tossed like tethers into the air.