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Jina's heart thumped to a dubstep beat as she scaled the backside of the old gas station. The cracks in the cinder blocks fit her small hands and feet, and she was on the roof before gravity could drag her back into submission.
There were three mattress(more)
It's nearly impossible to just get a waffle without mishap in this town. At least for me. My waffle joint was closed today, and it was the final straw of a gigantic haystack.  
To be fair, the problem started long before my sudden and excruciating inability to ju(more)
When I walk down the sidewalk with my silly little green earbuds in, I have to keep in mind and that not everyone can hear what I'm hearing and feel what I'm feeling. Still, it's hard for me not to just sway and writhe with the music.
IfYou might say She is one, a dead thing, and you wouldn't be wrong, but that isn't the whole truth. The truth of Her is the stilled heart of a clock, the space between cold sheets, a cup that cracks as it is filled. She isn't even half full.(more)
The first year I lived in Eastern Oregon, I realized that my life had been drawn on the inside of a box. Sunny skies, sagebrush, wide straight roads and my parade of boyfriends had all been rendered on a cardboard canvas, some days in charcoal, some days in watercolor,(more)
Sixty-seven letters in the box. One for each time she left. I hang them with clothespins on a line tacked to the wall, like photos drying in a dark room, like the photos of her that I don't have. One at a time, I'll read them. Sixty-seven chances to(more)
There's an amazing junk shop on Hawthorne. Immediately upon entering, you're overcome by the sweet dusty smell of aged, once-loved things. Racks of stiff, outlandish clothes create a crushing maze when you walk through the door, and after you've tried some on and imagined yourself a sultry songstress, a(more)
For Christmas, my mother sent me one her Magic Boxes. They arrive during the frigid holiday season, and again around my birthday, in the hottest month of the year (another clue as to my true identity as The Devil). They are filled with every offbeat and bizarre thing I(more)
Sun, of course. I have that album, an original 1968 pressing. The edges are frayed but the colors of the photos are still twilight-vibrant. Now, let's put it on, and ride the needle in the groove all the way to the bright midnight. The end of the night.
My mother travels often with her darling British boyfriend. She brought me two pieces of perfect driftwood from her last trip to the coast of Georgia (who ever thinks of Georgia having a coast line?). One is a small plank, nearly man-made rectangular, but with just enough wiggle an(more)
When I slept alone, which has been rare even in my short life, She would visit me. My eyes would be closed against the breath and the weight of the darkness, scratchymusty blanket pulled over my head. I'd feel Her slight, crushing weight fold the mattress, or the couch(more)
They wrap their feet around power lines like such badasses.
Delicate, cruel toes flexing, stretching, settling. And then they open their beaks and give you what-for.
I think I really piss crows off. Did I get too close to a nest at some point, and the gossip has sprea(more)
Back when all my undergarments were made of fishnet, I took a college writing class. The first assignment was to write a narrative essay. I think that was what it was called. It was fairly informal. We were even allowed to use the devil "I".
I chose t(more)

When getting dressed, I often stop to survey my shoe collection (and take a restorative gulp of coffee) and decide which pair would go best with my outfit.
Invariably, it's the gray suede boots I choose. They're so old they sag around the ankles. The heels are worn awa(more)
Talk to me in the past tense.

Russian words sound like English played backward. Tell me anything in that language and I'll believe it.

Roll the record back. Scratch, scratch, one long shriek. Click, click, start again.

The needle in the groove is a fingernail (more)