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“No ideas?” “Oh,” he thumbed his mug handle, “I have ideas.” “Well, then. There you go. Write them.” “Can’t.” “Why not?” “Because. What’s the point?” “What do you mean?” “I mean,” he said, “what’s the point? I start writing a paragraph, or I imagine a scene, and I just stop. I think, ‘Why bother?’” “Doug, […]

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There were two things he wanted. Three. Three things he– no, four. Four things he wanted most of all– “John?” Her voice sounded woodrowsy, his name like a plate of rice. “Huh?” he said, and he heard something else. Something red surrounding them on the grass. Five things, now that he thought about it, and […]

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*This was part of a for-fun exercise at a writers’ retreat in the mountains of Asheville, NC. It was inspired by that one person most of us probably know, or have known at one time or another. ______ He said, “When I make love, I am making love to God.” Sylvia knew Olvin too well […]

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Seven days ago, I was forced out of the Erie Canal. Now no one will talk to me. The police brought me home without cuffs, without ceremony. They walked me to the door without a blanket or a word—just watched me, wet and dripping, while I unlocked the door and went inside to Orson, who […]

Another piece that originally appeared at Six Sentences: . “Killing people is an art, he said” . Jenny, drunk, slid to her knees and clutched and groped at his thighs, her chin raised so that she could look up into his face. “You’re embarrassing me,” he said, and he apologized to the other couple still […]