Her fingers twitched against the marble counter in the kitchen. Jeanette, a 47-year-old raptured endowed member of the neighborhood's debauched coven of decadent insomniacs, and bowling widows. Stirring the fondue, calling the kettle black as the cheese bubbled over her makeshift altar (the oven). She was speaking to someone—or something—in the pantry, a can of mushroom soup—perhaps, the autographed picture of Wayne Newto...

This story begins in a tiny country town called Swampmava. Nobody really knew about this small town because it hit its peak way back in the 1920s. Back then, it was a summer resort that consisted of the cabins and homes that lined the train tracks and river bends. It was the place to be back then. Now it’s been almost a hundred years since its prime. The once-popular town has since been forgotten. The tracks that once bro...

I like my boy In all ways and manners I could go on writing for days But the trait I love more He has got "I won't hurt you" face.

One Charlie crouches behind the splintered remains of a supply crate, the acrid tang of burnt plastic sharp in the cool air. Night was coming, proclaimed by a blinding orange sun piercing an immense, jagged, fragmented wall of clouds in the west -- the direction they'd be going to cover their escape. Very soon, darkness would spread across the sky, their agreed upon time to mark their escape, onto their way to freedom. Bo...

What scares you? Existence; Existence is scary.

Introduction Welcome to a bright and beautiful morning- one that seems to lead us toward a new and unusual kind of story. It has always crossed my mind that a single story can be seen through different eyes: some may view it as a simple passing tale, while others may see it as a complete novel. Whether it is read by a casual reader or examined by a professional critic, what truly matters in the end is the enjoyment found...

I’m not sure how we found ourselves here. I look at the walls of this familiar fortress, but no longer recognise it as home. The walls used to be warm and inviting. Pretty pastels adorned them. Cosy rugs covered the floor. Soft pillows and blankets shrouded the welcoming, safe bed. The sound of carefree chatter used to ring through the room. Giggles and laughter bouncing like balls between us. It’s intermittent now, a cau...

It was a photograph that was the initial spark for George Dunsley to take a trip of over two-hundred miles to visit his old friend. A black and white photo of him with Noodle, real name Charles Oldroyd, taken in 1959, leaning against the back of an army jeep in a British military base, part of the twelfth signal regiment, stationed out in Cyprus, where they had a joint operation with supporters of the Cyprian presidential...

(One) The first contestant adjusts the sweatband on his wrist, the rough fabric scratching against his skin, and squints up at the towering wall of playing cards looming before him. Each card, easily twice his height and thick as a door, displays the stark black clubs suit against its pristine white back. "Alright, fresh meat," booms a voice crackling through the overhead speakers, dripping with forced enthusiasm, "Welcom...

This is a very short but very true story that occurred as my wife and I were preparing to leave for Vegas for our two-week vacation. She managed to find seats on the first non-stop flight, but not over the wings. I really enjoy being seated in the emergency exit rows because they are a little wider, so they provide me with ample legroom. Seated in the row I wanted was an elderly couple; they smiled at me, and I smiled bac...

I like your imagination I always want to find an excuse To talk to you And when I do I always smile.

A weather vane, swiveled on its spindle, catching a cold breath of tomorrow. It was a wind that carried no sound, only the promise of change. Below, in the hushed valley, the world lay in wait. Only the winds knew how deep the snow would be—a blanket vast enough to quiet the earth, or merely a dusting of the coming dawn. The vane held its rigid vigil, a silent prophet of the chill that seeped into the marrow of the air. I...

The story you are about to hear is true. This is the city. Charlotte Web, Louisiana. The Phantom wasn’t a man who solved cases; he was a man who closed chapters that polite society pretended had already ended in the boneyards. You wanted a problem to go away, you called on death. He operated out of an office that smelled of stale cigarettes, and beefaroni. His suits were a little too sharp, his fedora a little too low, hi...

One year, in the early 1990s, a group of us working for NBC Election Unit somehow managed to get a permit to play softball in Central Park. Tough permit to get, and we were stupidly lucky to get it. Anybody who wanted could play; you didn’t have to work for NBC. It was a pretty rag-tag team. In addition, it was the last slot on Sunday night, which meant that we got to play late, until it started to get dark. Fun games. Fu...

Every time I write a line I take some more space I create a limb A jaw I am hollow And fainted in real world I create myself Only in poetry.