The notebook I gave you at the beginning of us, filled with words you call poetry. The mug with the coffee tidemarks I tried to bleach once. The bathrobe you stole from an ex. The secret condoms in your jacket pocket. The awards you say mean nothing, in their silver frames. And the guitar you would strum, telling me I was the only one. You’ll pick up these pieces of you tomorrow. But who’s going to pick up the pieces of me? I trample the guitar with the heels you loved. Then I dump it. All those pieces of you.
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Congratulations to our 2023 Pushcart Prize Nominees!
We are delighted to nominate the following FlashFlood stories to the 2023 Pushcart Prize: ' The Doll House ' by Nathan Alling Long &...
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CHICKEN +50 Buttermilk fried, the apogee of chicken, its chickeniest chickenness, rich gold with bite and crunch and tendern...
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In case you missed any of the pieces we appeared during the 2023 FlashFlood, here's an index to everything. Happy Reading! ' They...
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A shaft of sunlight fell across the worn herringbone floor, drawing his gaze upwards to the flawless blue sky beyond the row of windows, ...
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