The fiction is here.

George Wells - There is a drawing on the wall. Her name is Lucia. Won't you hear her story?

The Story of My Holocaust—Part 2: The Names

Sometimes a piece comes along that you have to read. This is one.

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When you run with the bulls, it is not just the wine that is red.

Douglas Arvidson - That afternoon I went back to the arena, bought a ticket, and sat among a crowd of handsome young Spanish men and women and witnessed the actual bullfights. It was during these fights that they would kill the bulls I had run with that morning. They say there is a long list of Amer…

Pleasant Memories for Everyone

Unwise choices are the consequence of being unable to say “I was raped,” of questioning if one is, in fact, crazy—an unreliable narrator unable to be trusted—and therefore to blame, of learning that men are frightening, fallible, unpredictable, and must be appeased, of having no self‑worth. These are the choices one who knows something has gone horribly wrong makes in order to maintain an illusion of control.

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Dreaming in Russian

New poetry for your mental pleasure.

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"The tent tumbled off of the three bare bodies in the bed, and six eyes bore holes into the unseeing body of Maddie and the unseen body of her twin."

Hannah Lamb-Vines - Dizygotic reaches out to loneliness, and finds that loneliness reaches back.

Running the Bulls in Pamplona: Blood, Torture, and Sangria

This is because, Hemingway be damned, the inconvenient truth is that the glorious tradition of bull fighting with its powerful metaphors for courage and the eternal struggle between life and death involves torturing animals until they die.

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Jesus Doesn’t Talk to Me

A poetic meditation on the nature of creativity.

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"No, it was all working, writing, hanging and drinking with friends, and endless days. Fine. The sun shone a great deal. The car was a sweet ride, and for thirty years, only driven on Sundays (really, that’s what they told me)."

Christian Fennell - I was living in LA—Venice Beach, Ed O’Neill (Al Bundy) had just separated from his wife and was renting a parking spot next to mine—him, a Porsche something, me, an aged Volkswagen Jetta. We had some great talks, one of which was, never get married. I wasn’t, and had no immediate…

"It wasn’t my Uncle Al who my Great Granddad had tried to strangle, it was my Uncle Ken."

Andy Barnett - When we sat down to eat a train was in the cutting and it had nearly passed by. The water in the top of our glasses made waves like when the wind blows on the mill pond. When the train had gone and the house was still, we thanked God for the food on our table. We asked Him to make my…

"I was an anxious child, susceptible to fears of insects, spontaneous conflagration, and heights. I despised soda—the carbonation stung my tongue—and flinched at firecracker explosions and flung Wiffle balls. I refused to eat pork, fearing trichinosis contamination; red meat, with its rubbery tendons and seeping blood, repulsed me. I was a pain in the ass."

Suzanne Warren - I had read the term in books, and my parents had surely uttered it. Even so, as a child I failed to recognize the written and spoken forms of the word anxiety as the same. Spoken, the word anxiety drives forward, iamb bumper-to-bumper with iamb. But I read the le…

"The boy soldier prods his AK-47 in the small of my back in a ditch, gives up, and after a while leans on a white UN APC smoking a Marlboro from a pack I’d given him to turn his gun away while I get on with pissing."

Philip O’Neil - Piss-shyness is a bitch. I've suffered from it for longer than I care to remember and recollect painful episodes at nightclub urinals muttering nonsense as dick-proud sentries on either side of me stood like rodeo performers, one hand on hip, the other on dick. Gut envy at unleashers…

Arriving at the Day of the Dead

"Places of death walk us through our lives. They batter us with our own mortality, demand of us ephemeral answers about eternity, sadden us for people we knew—family that raised us—who selfishly have gone on, and to where? As a place of death, the graveyard is unique. The graveyard has nothing to do with police reports, with emergency medical services, with hospitals, with hospice—with the mess of dying. The graveyard waits for us: placid, organized, carrying a message or a lie."

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"I would return from Paris a cutter in love. Not in that order, but still. I would leave for France a hopeful young man, American in my optimism. And I would return from Paris a cutter in love."

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"He told me in a gentle tone that I was black-listed and my job prospects in India were dim. Without naming any names, he made it very clear that I made some serious enemies. He advised me to go abroad where the long arm of Professor Saxena and his cronies wouldn’t reach."

Rudy Ravindra - My advisor, Professor Saxena (Like many in this article, a pseudonym) suggested that I extend my senior’s work on ovarian steroids of the hamster. I studied my senior’s bulky thesis, made copious notes, and at end of the semester came to the painful and exasperating conclusion that t…

Pissing in Minefields

"Piss-shyness is a bitch...what doesn't help is having a young Croatian guard on the border with war torn Bosnia stand behind you with a loaded automatic rifle pointed at your back telling you to get a get a move on."

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Tuesday Throwback: Letterman on Fracking

As the retirement march continues, we thought we'd bring you this enlightening little snippet from the mind and ire of David Letterman. It a simple presentation on what makes Letterman the king and a glimpse into why he lost the ratings war. Hint: It has something to do with integrity.

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