Stories

Christ is not alive but the she-blood is. Slow down and swerve to miss her.

The sun falls back and vanishes like the men in my family who’ve died.

What would you say about the driver of the truck that killed you?

She alone knew how he could be swept up, tender interior laid bare.

I measured your breath with my breath, your foot with my thumb.

Six-word stories about the the perplexities of love and desire.

Peter Taylor’s stories are jigsaw puzzles of nuance and suggestion.

The lock surrendered, after a short struggle, to the poker.

Jenifer Browne Lawrence

It takes you more than ten thousand years to orbit the sun.

If we didn’t tear ourselves away, we'd never get our books written.

Last year alone, every American choked to death on a red balloon.

I feel delicious tody! I can claim the whole lawn with just one flamingo.

On the swings in the park, a woman sounds an off-key minor chord.

A family altar stuffed with dead family hanging now above the TV.

Frank Giampietro

If it hasn’t killed you by now just wait. This doesn’t mean you can fly.

Redemption is a broken bar on a cage. Loss is a sky of stars.

If he was cheating on her, he was cheating on her paintings as well.

The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks.

It’s silly, I know, half-expecting to see Apollo playing lyre to a muse.

It never occurred to me that I was being sold too, standing inside my box. Basil was annoyed. All that training he’d given me going to waste on art? I’ve been selling cigarettes, I said, as if it were a credential.

You put his hand around your throat but he keeps moving it away.

I saw myself, and for the first time, I didn’t look away.

The sex in these fantasies was always a product of love.

It seemed that someone had died, but really it was part of us.

On the other side of Paris an exhibit depicts their home, which is nowhere.