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In the overgrown, ripening summer, four boys, elementary age, chase the day away. It is that magic hour, right after dinner, just before the dark comes and beds call.
The bar is dimly-lit yet I can still see his face laced with long, shoe-string tears.
She woke on the sand in the scorching daylight and tiptoed her fingers towards the gauze wrap of a woman dead beside her.
A descriptive flash piece built of 3-word phrases.
I want to stop and ask for an explanation, but that isn’t an option because gravity and target workout pace dictates when I can stop.
The old ways were coming back, too. Old tastes. Religion. Cigarettes. Casual racism, masturbation and chastity belts, and long, long fireside stories told on frigid winter nights.
Larry Fischer had a new bitters kit he wanted to try, the artisanal kind packaged with letterpress and pipette.
The right leg kicks the football. The heart beats. The lungs breathe. The mouth opens. These actions belong to a body that used to belong to a girl.
What could be an endless ocean lay at the prow. Where the deep rosewood deck ends the dark water begins.
There were words strewn like spilt cereal all over the kitchen floor that morning, piles of subjectivity to be pushed aside before breakfast.
Every year, they arrived overnight—hulking beasts of steel, purring in anticipation under the harvest moon. Their shoulders jutted over the trees.
I wasn’t expected to live long. Born in the shadow of a great war, it was casually assumed I would perish in the next.