No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
When Nan started at the paper people talked to each other more, sat together. Nan wasn’t included at first but that changed over time and she believed she earned their respect. Her cubicle had come because of a promotion; she’d have preferred to still be in the newsroom.
He was a wriggling thing of eight his first time at sea. Until then he had had to watch as the men of the wharf sang their way down the docks.
The boy was awestruck as they creaked into their ships and slipped between the two vast and unforgiving blues.
I grew up in a town that boasts one stoplight, a grassed-over train track, and an abundance of barns. With woods that range from scenic to scary, depending on the time of day and the whereabouts of the neighborhood fisher-cat, we had all the trappings and small-town sentimentality of a Hallmark movie set, or a Stephen King backdrop.
Fernand and Hélène are lovers in Algiers during the Algerian War for Independence (1954-62). When Fernand plants a bomb in the factory where he works, he is quickly arrested, tortured, and sentenced to death.
In just his boxers, he sat straddle over the plexiglass wall. Paul carefully steadied himself to bring his leg round and face the water. As he edged off he counted down numbers twice and then made the drop.
Underneath, it was deadly quiet except a faint hum, likely the pool’s heater. Paul wanted to go right down and feel the bottom. It was unpleasant when he didn’t.
I imagine I am laid out
On a table.
Like a banquet. Very pretty.
Wearing a flowing dress.
Spread beneath my inert body
Waves of gauzy, ref filmy cloth
tease pale skin...