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fiction and poetry contest

First the eyes, he thought. Watch the eyes—where are the eyes watching? Forward, searching over heads, sorting out the familiar ones ahead on the rickety gangplank?

Anyone who has ever kept a secretKnows that letters cannot be burned in a bundle

The week her grandfather died, she recalleddancing with him at her sister’s wedding,the gardenia, his neatly parted white hair,a tango he likened to snow falling in calm wind.

For just one buck this gaudy one-eyedcheap tin crescent moon is mine,lead painted by some ‘artist’ in Beijing,mysterious mythic glamour brought lowby tawdry colors, already chipped,melodramatic, second-rate

To make it fair, we’ll need to wearthe same number or articlesof clothing and decide whethersocks count as one or two and ifrings and watches count at all.


At sixteen, the good kissrelied on pitch-black darknessduring the seventeen-mile ride to our dairy farmafter we won the basketball gameand my point-guard boy danced with me

She had been here, and now she is gone,leaving her mark like an imprint in snow.Her things are still here, but she has moved on.

when you diethis lady named alicebut probably karenwalks you across the street

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