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She offered her face up for what should be a brotherly kiss.

Her previous existence seemed unreal, now, a faint rumor.

She’d lifted the plot from a TV show she’d watched the night before.

Stripped we are — no mark of wealth or rank upon us. We wear our skins.

The rings of Saturn flash their nothing yellows, nothing blues beautiful.

Nothing was permanent, no friend I made, no math test I took.

I am left with little Rome for error. I choose wrong, then I revise.

I wander among my recollections of the world of letters in London.

Let’s span a time with each other. The mutual will give us pleasure.

What does it take for a woman like you to decide to do something?

Well, back home has really changed, you won’t get that same bammy.

The wild-eyed horse was more a figure of nightmare than dream.

What counts in the long run is pleasure in conversation with each other.

Richard Bausch

Michelle dances on his forehead like an imp, like an illness in motion.

By the end of my trip to St. Thomas, I had discovered a reason to live.

When we move together in the dark I can almost get to him but I turn back.

Tobias Wolff

Her body too, a mystery in motion. But does she own her body?

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

Sarah let herself be guided by her desire, inescapable and true.