Read excerpt at The Nervous Breakdown. 8220;In clear, lucid prose, What Happened Here. And We Need to Talk about Kevin. Winner of the Orange Prize. S introduction to her interview with Bonnie ZoBell.

2 am and Where is Your Daughter. Clarissa stood before the 6-foot-tall mountain of glass bottles overflowing their cinderblock compartment at the recycling center. It was past two am Charles had brought her here.

I throw my trench coat over the chair when I get home, grab a bottle of Merlot and snicker. Tears leak down my face when she comes to kiss my neck. Why are you so enticing? We ran. There in her hands she had it open. The last grain of sand hit the floor, and he turned the hourglas.

A yellow swash of paint on the doorjamb. A key attached to a sterling silver chain lost. On a trip abroad found three years later inside. A suitcase saved from getting lost on another trip. With a lover, lost now, instead. A yellow swash of paint on the doorjamb.

A literary journal of flash nonfiction. Slice of Life on Hiatus. My mama always said she had eyes in the back of her head and I believed her. Your sister okay? 8221; Only then could we take another breath. After receiving her PhD in 1997, Katherine Horrigan taught as an adjunct English Professor for the University of Houston. Both print and online journals including.

Stories and poems set in moments of ending and transition. No genre, no comparisons, just good writing. Start your own free website. A surprisingly easy drag and drop site creator.

Poetry with a knife edge! Midnight Alley by Bradford Middleton. Midnight has come and I feel as lonely as hell. The idea of finding a woman in a bar, no chance of that. Not in this town, not in this lifetime. The need for a late night erotic fumble have reached unbearable levels. With the kind of money I got right now.

Words become bunkers for soldiers. See, if you look in a mirror. There is war paint under your eyes and shotgun shells strapped. It is the way things are now. We have reached the peak. Of human capability and our toes are rotting into the soil. Faith in things beyond us. I swear, God is a way for men to explain. There is nothing beyond us but empty space.