The ghost who lives in the hallway used to be quieter. When we first moved in, I’d see him only occasionally, on nights where fog was thick or the moon full. He’d just float there, bowler hat on, side of his face melted and slipping off, and watch me. As far as ghosts go, he was pretty harmless, which is why I never screamed. Never even told Ted about him. I’d just pass by him in the hallway, nod politely, and go about my business.

     I think he liked being seen. I understood. The longer we lived there, the more he’d come out. Soon he wandered out of the hallway. He’d hover near the kitchen table and watch me do the dishes. Sometimes in the mornings, after Ted had left for work, I’d pour an extra mug of coffee and leave it on the table. I always made too much anyway.
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Prologue/

How can writing be linear? It evades the bounds of time, creates its own change within itself, harms itself, heals itself, transcends itself. Writing is influenced by nothing more than the mind, no external or variable factors besides the ones that inhabit the mind. Writing is exhibiting the word-illustrations of the mind, which contains implacable meaning, cannot help itself or do anything besides meaning. The mind and the brain may be two vastly dissimilar things in regards to writing and meaning.

My organs aren’t real, and I know that, we’ve never met, they seem standoffish and busy.

Todos palabras, truly hollow.

All good writing is really just poetry, and poetry is painting mind pictures using words, thus creating an image, and time and order has no place within images, since images remain the same images regardless of their position in time.

Writing uses a juxtaposition of associations that relate to one another to indicate or replicate time, but postulate for a single shining moment that all could be seen and realized, no longer a limited perception, rather an omniscient perception of all at once. An extinguishment of the practice of writing simulating oral storytelling and instead developing a truthful juxtaposition of word-images that inherently entail ideas. A word-portrait. /
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     The blade dropped, and its precision left much to be desired. Another rodent’s escape. She was spread thin, like the last bit of jelly on her Saltine crackers, sifting through a pile of yellowing envelopes weighted with bold-faced capital letters. The textured wall beside her supported a body that, though muscular, was losing its strength, and the tears that met the peeling paint softened its edges into the kind of fungal clusters that grow on dead logs.

     Three or four steps from her kitchen sink and she was spread atop her sheets and comforter, considering the irony of its name. It provided no sanctuary from the square of springs it dressed. Dressed, something she did and undid for the evening shift, and a heel had broken off her last pair of shoes the morning before.
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     Mary & Joe had wanted a baby for a long time, but to no avail. The day Mary got pregnant the heat was an all time high. It was a red Sun type of day and Joe had been such a savage that he left Mary with a ton of scars he had turned into an entire different beast from the usually passionate Joseph that he was. But Mary had no problem with this. They were finally pregnant and she just wanted to celebrate.

     People around town were happy for the couple. They knew the struggle they had gone through and they were happy they finally got their dream come true, especially for Mary who had been wanting to be a mother for the past few years but had been denied her wish, not only cause Joe had a problem ejaculating inside of her but also cause of their economic concerns.

     But now they were pregnant and Mary’s belly grew fast, so fast in fact it wasn’t human. Doctors took her in for testing. But everything seemed normal. She was as healthy as could be. No problem whatsoever. But things weren’t as normal as they seemed.
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DOCILE CONTORTIONISTS EMBRACING THE IDIOSYNCRATIC 
                                                             
Family dignitaries arrive quietly for a feeding.
The mother who cooks her Sunday roast slowly
and is fundamentally fearless,
disapproves of the backward baseball caps
so plan your own arguments.
Forever reactionary in retrospect,
with affiliates and favorites 
of this excessive need to be. 

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First Sighting

     We’re a small town. A very close community. There’re 3,570 people in town and about that many within five miles of town. We’re not bigoted. We are champions of diversity. We have an Arab, Muslim family, several black families, two Asian families, and three mixed race/ethnicity couples. We have gay couples and a score of gay individuals.

     I’m Jewish, married to a Catholic. We own the Country Store.

     We’re forward-looking and forward-thinking.

     In the last election, we voted fifty-eight percent Democratic.

     You need this background to understand. I hope you do understand. (more…)

And it was the morning after a big party but we hadn’t come down completely yet, much less gone to sleep, so Doug and me and a couple girls went to hang out on the abandoned highway bridges. We were going to go to the Amoco for sodas but weren’t coherent enough to talk to sober people yet, so we were just up there. I saw these big piles of dirt mixed with gravel and called out to Doug that we should dig for dead bodies.

He ran over all excited, waving that weird black umbrella cane he always carried whether it was going to rain or not, something about the Penguin from the comics, but then he sagged all disappointed. Said he thought I told him I found one and he was almost kid-happy to see it. (more…)