Tag Archives: Prose

Catholic School Girls

The Catholic school girls. With their short plaid skirts and white collared shirts and the inviting exposure between where the skirt cut off and the sock began, generating an erotic glare of exposed flesh. In their uniforms the Catholic school … Continue reading

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In Love and War

I dumped all my G.I. Joes out of the shopping bag and onto the pavement of the driveway. I separated the good guys from the bad guys, and then arranged them in specific positions. Before initiating a battle, or an … Continue reading

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Halloween

Halloween. As was tradition, the boys would stalk the neighborhood, armed with cartons of eggs and cans of Barbasol. Me and my friends were foam-caked, yolk-splatted messes when we ran into Alexis and her friends coming home from school. They … Continue reading

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Death of a Super Hero

   I was six when I found out I’d never become a super-hero.    We were in the kitchen. Me, my mother, my father.    My father’s hand was around my mother’s throat. He had a wild, bloodshot, not-there look … Continue reading

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Innocence

The party ended and I went to Gillian’s house. I was between places and Gillian was letting me stay with her temporarily, which given our history was a tribute to her character. We had been in a tumultuous three-year relationship, … Continue reading

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The Little People

Just found out my story, “The Little People,” was nominated for Best of the Net. Audio-version of the story can be heard here, in Golden Walkman magazine.

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Gathered Crumbs from a Lost Cake

Review of Elizabeth Ellen’s Person/a, appearing in Riot Material. “The poet, Robert Lowell, spoke about the best poems, the most personal ones, as being “gathered crumbs from a lost cake.” Elizabeth Ellen, in architecting a novel from “lost crumbs,” has … Continue reading

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Ribbon

The furls of music, In vitro seeding of keys– ribbons mused upon.  

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Golem

Excerpt from Nocturne Variations: I think, the bottom line, Piers, is that one’s protector is or can become one’s destroyer. Angels are monsters in wait, same as monsters are angels awaiting transformative context. The two are one and to divide … Continue reading

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Six

   I was six when I found out I’d never become a super hero.    We were in the kitchen. Me, my mother and father. My father’s hand was around my mother’s throat. He had a wild, bloodshot, not-there look … Continue reading

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