It’s wrong to say the lightning is pink is nothing other than to say it’s not.
Like a bird with a broken wing I will smudge the line of the hopscotch.
Through the dark, we say, through the dark: but do we ever really know?
You smile into the phone static, the breath of your beloved.
We caress the rough. Sensuous, delectable, and yet sorrowful.
The men here don’t know where to place me, call me exotic grail.
There was a shout, then a shot fired. I pressed the shutter again and again.
I walk over to her for what seems to be an eternity. “May I have this dance?”
The underworld reached out for your hand and found payment.
The woman who is known only through a man is known wrong.
I am veins and breath, the entrance the world passes through.
I thought my body was mine until it a map anyone could use.
The city is lit with all its lights. I’m up in the air. It is yes until I die.
I managed to talk sensible Alice into a little pink outfit and high heels.
Reviewers are curs and their opinions are not to be taken seriously.
I walk across the fields with only a few young cows for company.
Two animals, doe-eyed, slick across the road into the femur of the night.
He was a child. He was dead. He was the shaft of a Long-tailed Astrapia.
The stones here carry the island’s low cry inside them. A landlocked grief.
When he was a child, my father had a cousin who was buried by a plow.
I looked into their eyes and loved them, and wished to God I was dead.
You and the cat wish I were baking pumpkin pie and we were happier.
Underestimate the beauty in the world and spill coffee down your shirt.
I’ve never heard of Badgley Mischka (A person? Two people? Man?)
My first true love was Underwood, my mother’s typewriter.
There isn’t a nice Jewish boy in sight—not that I’m looking for one.
Why kill something so mild-mannered, entertaining, and sociable?
I’m a theatrical lyricist. I would never choose to look fat in public.
Try never to repeat rhymes, not once in an entire show. It tires the ear.
We’re all trying, in our own ways, to parse what we may have done wrong.
I don’t need to consult a healer to feel the aura glowing around us.
Every step I’ve taken has been from one tongue to another.
My grandfather has a space where the tip of his thumb should be.
Like lions in cages, women like me dream . . . of freedom . . .
She bequeathed her children a mother who dreams and smiles.
You knelt down to kiss her, avoiding, of course, the wound at her brow.
With these fingers, afraid and aware, I stroke your delicate skin.
Lure, yes, you would know how to catch and clean such a thing.
The Human Comedy: Four new six-word stories by Sherman Alexie.
Marie was Indian, and everything Indian required patience.
Is anybody out there? Nobody answered, and I felt archaic as prayer.
The woman one row in front of me was an epic series of curves.
May your wife remove her shirt and have an affair with a tornado.
These six-worders work in a strict three-act structure, like screenplays.
I needed a paycheck a lot more than I needed to be kissed.
We did not know at the moment of parting that it was a parting.
Neither fame nor wealth could provide consolation for life’s brevity.
I ask that now I be allowed to see the one my vision has been denied.
I answered, blood rushing like the shadow cast by a cloud of starlings.
Claim to be Choctaw or Cherokee. Claim to be a princess too.
There is something on my mind rushing up as river in a locked car.
Don’t send me home without a round of applause if not a title.
Ella knew she hadn’t hurt Sebastian, but she knew she’d betrayed him.
Our cocoa is gone and our dreams are being eaten by mice.
I’ll see you on the sea, they say, but then they float past on a raft
She wags her index finger so furiously that I’m certain it will snap off.
I grabbed him by the face and told him life only comes to a person once.
Soon I will walk up those same back steps the police took by force.
We never really had what might be considered a normal conversation.
He got his wife off a German farmer, for whom he went to work one day.
The story of Wing Biddlebaum’s hands is worth a book in itself.
Americans have always a kind of tenderness for cheat.
There’s something I saw at the race meeting I can’t figure out.
In the backyard I submerge myself in a bathtub of soil, soak with the hose.
Time stops as the ball rolls tantalizingly around the rim.
It was enough to make the most hardened veteran drop his guard.
Instead, she stares right at us, her shoulder half-naked in broad daylight.
“Then I can promise to kill either of you if I ever see you again.”
He phones from across the country after lying in the grass with another.
If you can be seen, you can be killed. No-man’s-land is everyman’s land.
Ralph’s children had believed Christine was just after his money.
My shadow feels my company, my stepping as he steps.
I eat what’s in front of me, as all great men do. Some wouldn’t, but I do.
I know what my promises are worth, know the worth of material things.
I eat what’s in front of me, as all great men do. Some wouldn’t, but I do.
We see how tired you are as you lean on your rifle or your shovel.
Ajax can answer all this killing only with the killing of himself.
Burly Viking raiders are standing in the coffee line, sharing pickles.
A landscape values people at the level that it values other things.
When I grow up I want to be one of the horses of the Apocalypse.
The financial plan works if we eat 40% of the kids before college.
This book club has rules, Carolyn. Everyone HAS to read the book!
And up ahead you'll see some jagged rocks that will kill us.
Don’t worry. I’ve performed this procedure hundreds of times.
“Stop looking at women’s magazines and call me in the morning.”
He’s become insufferable since that MacArthur fellowship.
“I wish my father was alive to see how lazy I could really be.”
New cartoon from Mick Stevens: “It’s hardly worth the trouble tonight.”
“No, actually you are very different from the women I usually date.”
See no evil, hear no evil, speak
no evil, eat a banana.
New cartoons by Le Lievre, Warp, Piccolo, Leavitt, and Sipress.
Great new cartoons by Feggo, Katz, LeLievre, Sipress, and Stevens.
Great new cartoons by Conklin, Levin, Stevens, Vey, and Warp.
New cartoons from P. C. Vey, Shannon Wheeler, Pete Mueller, and more!
New cartoons from Arnold Levin, Mira Scharf, David Sipress, and more!
New cartoons from Lydia Conklin, Rina Piccolo, Zachary Kanin, and more!
New cartoons from Chris Weyant, Joe Dator, P. C. Vey, and more!
New cartoons from Mary Lawton, Joe Dator, Rina Piccolo, and more!
New cartoons from Glen Le Lievre, John Leavitt, P. C. Vey, and more!
New cartoons from Rina Piccolo, Arnold Levin, Joe Dator, and more!
New cartoons from Rina Piccolo, Emily Flake, Joe Dator, and more!
New cartoons from P. C. Vey, Mick Stevens, Arnold Levin, and more!
New cartoons from P. C. Vey, Liza Donnelly, Joe Dator, and more!
New cartoons from Rina Piccolo, J. C. Duffy, Bob Eckstein, and more!
New cartoons from Ken Krimstein, Kim Warp, David Sipress, and more!
New cartoons from Kim Warp, Liza Donnelly, David Sipress, and more!
New cartoons from Ken Krimstein, Lydia Conklin, Farley Katz, and more!
New cartoons from Rina Piccolo, Arnold Levin, Farley Katz, and more!
A stunning collection from fourteen emerging photographers.
New cartoons from P. C. Vey, Rina Piccolo, Kim Warp, and more!
Cartoons from Kim Warp, Glen Le Lievre, P. C. Vey and more!
Cartoons from Glen Le Lievre, Shannon Wheeler, P.C. Vey and more!
Cartoons from Kim Warp, David Sipress, Mick Stevens, and more!
More cartoons from P. C. Vey, Liza Donnelly, and Rina Piccolo!
New cartoons from Glen Le Lievre, Lydia Conklin, and P. C. Vey!
More cartoons from P. C. Vey, Pete Mueller, and Joe Dator!
New cartoons from Glen LeLievre, Liza Donnelly, and more!
We'd see them more, but your father and I aren't much for traveling.
Betty Noir turns a trip to the post office into gripping melodrama.
J. C. Duffy
Glen Le Lievre
You don’t feel anything when they cut you, not at first, just the blood.
Ten years ago, when I was in college, my father divorced my mother and said he wanted me to become responsible for her. That is why I fled to Italy.
You quickly find nothing interests people so much as themselves.
If you’re not having fun, then there isn’t a big impetus to stay alive.
The Interests of a writer and the interests of his readers are never...
Literary gatherings are a nightmare because writers have no shop talk.
My advice can be succinctly expressed in three words: Persist, persist, persist!
Getting answers is easy. The difficult thing is knowing the right questions.
If the kind hearts had fat purses, how much better everything would go!
“I love you” is always a quotation. You did not say it first.
We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.
I am always hungry & wanting to have sex. This is a fact.
If they don’t give you a seat at the table, bring a folding chair.
The rich man adorns himself and the elegant man gets dressed.
Having a sister or a friend is like sitting at night in a lighted house.
It was more fun to get drunk with a friend than with a lover.
Grass grows, birds fly, waves pound the sand. I beat people up.
“I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”
“I always arrive late at the office, but I make up for it by leaving early.”
The library is inhabited by spirits that come out of the pages at night.
We’ve seen the news. We know the story. How even our bodies hurt us.
Navigating the trailer park at night felt like a raid on a strange village.