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  • Fiction > Romance
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    He finds her out on the roof, sitting cross-legged on the ledge and smoking a cigarette. His heart jumps into his throat just at the sight of her, but he forces himself to calm down and approach her slowly, lest he scare her right over the edge. At last, he stops a few feet away from her and anxious...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    nostalgia is the most incredible of human phenomenons. only humans can miss something that they've never had. ---------- Have you ever been to your mother’s childhood home? The little apartment on Cherry Slope seems so small compared to the tasteful post-modern loft that you spent your ...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    dear miss dickinson, did you ever stand on the far shore, of a misty lake and wonder what hid in the vaporous smoke, see your reflection in a clear patch of glass and wonder when you had become someone else dear miss dickinson, did you keep mirrors, in your house, do you know the shap...
  • Fiction > All Fiction
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    Some books are cold. Fresh and chill and cold, like ice on a lukewarm day, like a gust of breathy December air laying its cheek against yours. Like Jack Frost’s sweet numb kisses on your literary lips. The cold revitalizes you, clears the cobwebs from the dim corners of your mind, brings gasping c...
  • Fiction > Sci-fi/Fantasy
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    Tally found Matty exactly where she had known he’d be: lying on his back at the top of the Crest, looking wistfully up at the planet below them. She huffed angrily to herself as she trekked up the steep hillside. Ten minutes ‘til curfew, and there he was, buried like a corpse in the thick fields...
  • Fiction > Historical Fiction
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    As a boy, he paints. He takes his colors and his canvases out into the garden and sits for hours by the flowerbeds, watching the butterflies make their dainty rendezvous on the lips of his mother’s red carnations. He traces the delicate flair of their bodies and labors over the brilliant shades of...
  • Fiction > Romance
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    Part I – merry wanderers “I am that merry wanderer of the night,” said Puck, of spiteful Oberon’s kingdom; but he might as well have been speaking of you, because you are like Shakespeare, Shakespeare, written on air. We meet under the streetlamps at midnight and you flick your cigarette ...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    The words, they dance around my head Unraveling like spools of film But the ink seems to bleed from my pens And paper crumbles in my hands These words, they play out like harmonies Tuneless music, free-versed refrain But the names of the notes escape Slipping through invisible cracks These w...
  • Fiction > Romance
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    “You ready?” She startles and glances up, biting her lip distractedly as her eyes meet his. She looks away almost immediately and back down at her paper, her breath whooshing out in a faint sigh. “Yeah.” She drops her pen and notices for the first time how tightly she had been ...
  • Fiction > All Fiction
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    She looked up at the light breaking in crystal fragments over the tops of the waves and thought, dreamily, This isn’t such a bad way to die. She had fantasized about it so many times now. She’d been afraid that it would hurt. She had tried to imagine what it would be like to be dead, what not...
  • Fiction > Thriller/Mystery
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    They meet in a dark alleyway, because of course that is where a stone-drunk, p*ssy-feeling woman in her early twenties meets the best kind of people. She stands there in the dank, gloomy darkness, staring down at the three unconscious bodies scattered at her feet, and marvels at her own stupidity. I...
  • Poetry > All Poetry
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    The rain is falling; the thunder's bawling As he sits there beneath the gray and gloomy sky. He takes a breath, takes a drink and lets the last of the memories die. The pain is fading; the day is waning And he's losing more than he's gaining. The sun is sinking; he stops thinkin...
  • Poetry > All Poetry
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    Sunset fading from the sky Light fading from her eyes Breath too precious for their lies Is this what it feels like to die? Fog fills the gilded air, Silver mist, like angels’ hair In love and war, all is fair If I died, would you care? She lies upon the far, high hills The lies echo ...
  • Fiction > All Fiction
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    She’s born in a bright white hospital room to the smell of antiseptic and the lingering odor of cigarettes, and is snuck out through the window two hours later because nobody can pay the hospital’s bills. She’s brought home to a run-down old ranch house in some nameless town in Northern Califo...

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