Aware that her husband is hard at hearing, she likes to whisper to the numbskull and leaves inaudible messages on his phone, especially if really important. Aware that his wife of seven years has OCD, he is still annoyed to no end when the crazy nag screams into his hearing aid: why is water in the kitchen sink again?! |
![]() Red books, green books, blue books, and yella; Books in the attic and books in the cellar, Stacked on the table and piled on the floor... 'Whatcha want for Christmas?' 'Books! I need some more!' ![]() Fire engines rush to the scene but it's too late to save the pub: angry flames illuminate the night air burning the old photographs on walls of locals from years long before. Ghosts will be gazing sadly as the ruthless fire rages on. The man watches with a tear in his eyes remembering drinking here when young, a time he seemed to be immortal. Soon the bulldozers will arrive to remove all traces of the tavern yet nothing lasts forever, even planets crumble into dust but life goes on... as it must. Who gives a fuck
how you feel? I'll tell you who: no motherfucker in the Big Apple, that's who. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. Please feel free to comment (nicely!) on any poems – writers appreciate it.
Just at the moment, though, we're moderating some of them so there might be a slight delat before they appear. Archives
February 2025
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