We had sex in the morning when we woke up. Most couples can’t do that, but we never had anywhere to be right away, and that’s how we started our days. If Patrick knew I started this by saying that, he would have laughed, I hope.
Read MoreVincent scraped the remnants of dinner into the trash and handed the dishes to Cheryl for washing. Alexa and Harry, their spouses, were on the porch with a deck of cards and the last of the gin between them.
Read MoreA broke hand is nothing new. At least it feels and looks broke. Wayne’s familiar with broke hands because he’d busted this one, the right one, before. One night at Leo’s pool hall, 22 years old, opening a beer bottle. He’d set that bottle cap against the metal rim of a corner pocket and whacked it hard.
Read MoreI sat at my colleague’s breakfast table recently, not exactly an amorous morning, awaking as we usually did on a Saturday to her awful snoring and agitated semi-slumbering feet.
Read MoreThey were tired from all of the sex. It was the weekend, which meant it was time for having sex and walking around their apartment without any clothes on. Every weekend worked that way. They would get home from work, take off their clothes, and have sex until they got tired.
Read MoreThis image and the ones to follow capture what is thought to be the first experiments in the “sky writing” by Art Smith, The Bird Boy of Fort Wayne, in the air above Reservoir Park in the aforementioned city.
Read MoreMy apartment smells like dead squirrel.
There's a tree outside my kitchen window where an old gray squirrel used to live. He would climb out on the low branches and watch me eating breakfast every morning.
Read MoreI began building tree houses soon after being fired from the fire department for being videotaped smoking at a gas station in front of the pump, repeatedly. The late local news did one of those gotcha stories on me and then their competitors did some follow-ups and before long, there was a petition with six thousand signatures calling for my dismissal.
Read MoreEugene shifted the flatbed Chevy into third and crawled up Sawmill Ridge. He turned Robert Earl Keen up a notch and surveyed both shoulders of the road. The dispatcher, Deidra, had said the accident was just over the hill, and that the roadkill wasn’t pretty, or so she had heard. She said the victim and the police were at the scene.
Read MoreThere was only one stick left in the matchbox. The hands were unsteady; so were the fingers. Yet, with the utmost care that could be summoned, it was lighted by the limping fingers. The flicker, shielded from sea breeze by cupped palms, was lifted up and up until it made contact with the tip of the pipe clenched to the mouth.
Read MoreCement steps banged into metal railings as Robert Riley and I climbed to my second floor apartment. The key, newly cut, fit awkwardly in the lock. When I opened the door, I was confronted by the sudden smell of newly shampooed carpet and mildew, and dust motes floated in sunbeams that penetrated the single dirty window.
Read MoreNewman is a town of well nigh three and half thousand partly transient people eleven hundred kilometers north-east of Perth, Western Australia. It lies in the middle of the Pilbara, and area bigger than Belgium with massive contrasts. An ancient land dotted with mining towns built on the cusp of the mining boom, a boom where there is no sense of slowing.
Read MoreLately, I've been taking my lunch breaks with a guy whose real name is Clarence Dooley but everybody calls Backhoe. Or Backdoorhoe. Or Crackhoe. Depending how the foreman's treating us that day.
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