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Over 90 days ago
Scotland

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“I think that’s enough for tonight, Nobuo.” The young boy’s father had stood in the doorway for thirty minutes, moved by his son’s unwavering focus and diligence. He knew he would have continued through the night if he was allowed. “Just one more, daddy,”...

The ice tinkled against the glass as I raised it to my lips, enjoying the warmth of the late evening sun on my face. The view from the hotel veranda was sublime, out across the Pacific vastness to meet the vivid blue sky at the horizon. It was plain to se...

You say the words, Even as they teeter At the edge of my tongue. You give voice to thoughtsNot yet fully formedIn my mind.  You articulate my opinions,So I better understandMy own heart. I know your reaction Well before you give it.I know your passions,Wh...

Not a head does not turn towards the destruction, drawn by the brutal symphony of sound, held rapt by the morbid visual. Everyone sees some part of the meticulously planned yet seemingly barbaric disassembly, almost walking into one another as they crane...

I'm sure you don't remember the first time we met. I say "met"; it was but a brief moment in which two strangers passed each other by, one barely noticing the other, if at all, but leaving an unmistakably profound impression on him—on me. No, I am certain...

This Is Where I Write

Where do you write?

Coach B is the Quiet Coach. It is a good place to think, to reflect and from which to draw inspiration. It is a silent movie and my mind writes the title cards. I always travel in Coach B, though it is always at the far end of the platform. For four and a...

I lie there, flat on my back, sore and disoriented. Blinking against the darkness, I begin to comprehend my surroundings but make no attempts to move yet, growing accustomed to the dull ache in my muscles. I've fallen into some sort of chasm, a deep and n...

I stand at the end of the path for a moment, staring at the modest home before me. This is the place; this is the address I was given. I am not really sure what waits for me inside but I have a feeling that I was right to come here, that my friend was rig...

Stockard Channing

A bad poem about bad poetry.

There are worse things I could do than write a bad poem or two. I could write of love that I have known, love that I have lost. I could compare her (whoever she is) to some flower, some painting, or (heaven forbid) some summer’s day. I could tell of heart...