Hands pull the lifeless
organ from my chest
its muscular rhythm still for 17 minutes
without a beat, after he smacked
this year, i resolve to…
listen to leonard cohen recite his poem “fingerprints” while we drink red needles in the arizona dusk
chat with margaret atwood over lunch about her creative writing process; i will call her “peggy”
My mother, bless her wooden heart loves my daughter Allie. I write those words the straight, blue lines of my notebook. At times like this I need to see words on paper so that I feel their effects. Mother is coming for a visit today.
Autumn Harris lived at #53 Melbourne, four doors down from our house. She was the only other girl my age on the street and probably the best friend I ever had. I envied her because she was it. She knew it. I knew it. And Billy Dorset knew it.
She looked to Hera for answers, but the goddess was busy tending to the marital bliss of others.
I don’t get it man, I mean, what the fuck?
Ricca’s low, harsh voice rumbles across the table. Her hand claims a smouldering cigarette and stuffs its filter into lips licked by Revlon’s Wine with Everything.
I mean, like, he’s single now. Right?
Mag says nothing. She watches her friend French inhale a cigarette, watches the smoke as [...]
Ten years into her career, Valerie Poulin realized the advantages to office work were limited to supply booty: pilfered paperclips, unlimited photocopies, and free postage. The best haul (from a long-term stint at a local talent agency), provided the struggling writer with five years worth of script brads.
Valerie Poulin likes men with accents and those without.
Valerie [...]