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The back of my neck breaks out in a sweat, and I’m getting nervous. Why is he just standing there, staring at me? What do you want? I press, my tone curt.He opens his mouth but then closes it swallowing.Pike, Jesus—The day you left, he blurts out, and I stop.I wait, listening as a look of fear crosses his eyes.The house was so empty, he continues. Like a quiet that was never there before. I couldn’t hear your footsteps upstairs or your hairdryer or anticipate you walking into a room. You were gone. Everything was… he drops his eyes, gone.A ball lodges in my throat, and I feel tears threaten, but I tense my jaw, refusing to let it out.But I could still feel you, he whispers. You were still everywhere. The container of cookies in the fridge, the backsplash you picked out, the way you put all my pictures back in the wrong spot after you dusted my bookshelves. He smiles to himself. But I couldn’t rearrange them, because you were the last to touch them, and I wanted everything the way you had it.My chin trembles, and I fold my arms over my chest, hiding my balled fists under my arms.He pauses and then goes on. Nothing would ever go back to the way it was before you came into my house. I didn’t want it to. He shakes his head. I went to work, and I came home, and I stayed there every night and all weekend, every weekend, because that’s where we were together. That’s where I could still feel you. He steps closer, dropping his voice. That’s where I could wrap myself up in you and hang on to every last thread in that house that proved you were mine for just a little while.His tone grows thick, and I see his eyes water.I really thought I was doing what was best, he says, knitting his brow. I thought I was taking advantage of you, because you’re young and beautiful and so happy and hopeful despite everything you’d been through. You made me feel like the world was a big place again.My breathing shakes, and I don’t know what to do. I hate that he’s here. I hate that I love that he’s here. I hate him.I couldn’t steal your life from you and keep you to myself, you know? he explains. But then I realized that you’re not happy or hopeful or making me feel good because you’re young. You are those things and you’re capable of those things, because you’re a good person. It’s who you are.A tear spills over, gliding down my cheek.Baby, he whispers, his hands shaking. I hope you love me, because I love you like crazy, and I’m going to want you the rest of my life. I tried to stay away, because I thought it was the right thing, but I fucking can’t. I need you, and I love you. This doesn’t happen twice, and I’m not going to be stupid again. I promise.My chin trembles, and something lodges in my throat, and I try to hold it in, but I can’t. My face cracks, and I break down, turning away from him. The tears come like a goddamn waterfall, and I hate him. I fucking hate him.His arms are around me in a second, and he hugs me from behind, burying his face in my neck.I’m sorry I took so long, he whispers in my ear. ― Penelope Douglas, Birthday Girl

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The back of my neck breaks out in a sweat, and I’m getting nervous. Why is he just standing there, staring at me? What do you want? I press, my tone curt.He opens his mouth but then closes it swallowing.Pike, Jesus—The day you left, he blurts out, and I stop.I wait, listening as a look of fear crosses his eyes.The house was so empty, he continues. Like a quiet that was never there before. I couldn’t hear your footsteps upstairs or your hairdryer or anticipate you walking into a room. You were gone. Everything was… he drops his eyes, gone.A ball lodges in my throat, and I feel tears threaten, but I tense my jaw, refusing to let it out.But I could still feel you, he whispers. You were still everywhere. The container of cookies in the fridge, the backsplash you picked out, the way you put all my pictures back in the wrong spot after you dusted my bookshelves. He smiles to himself. But I couldn’t rearrange them, because you were the last to touch them, and I wanted everything the way you had it.My chin trembles, and I fold my arms over my chest, hiding my balled fists under my arms.He pauses and then goes on. Nothing would ever go back to the way it was before you came into my house. I didn’t want it to. He shakes his head. I went to work, and I came home, and I stayed there every night and all weekend, every weekend, because that’s where we were together. That’s where I could still feel you. He steps closer, dropping his voice. That’s where I could wrap myself up in you and hang on to every last thread in that house that proved you were mine for just a little while.His tone grows thick, and I see his eyes water.I really thought I was doing what was best, he says, knitting his brow. I thought I was taking advantage of you, because you’re young and beautiful and so happy and hopeful despite everything you’d been through. You made me feel like the world was a big place again.My breathing shakes, and I don’t know what to do. I hate that he’s here. I hate that I love that he’s here. I hate him.I couldn’t steal your life from you and keep you to myself, you know? he explains. But then I realized that you’re not happy or hopeful or making me feel good because you’re young. You are those things and you’re capable of those things, because you’re a good person. It’s who you are.A tear spills over, gliding down my cheek.Baby, he whispers, his hands shaking. I hope you love me, because I love you like crazy, and I’m going to want you the rest of my life. I tried to stay away, because I thought it was the right thing, but I fucking can’t. I need you, and I love you. This doesn’t happen twice, and I’m not going to be stupid again. I promise.My chin trembles, and something lodges in my throat, and I try to hold it in, but I can’t. My face cracks, and I break down, turning away from him. The tears come like a goddamn waterfall, and I hate him. I fucking hate him.His arms are around me in a second, and he hugs me from behind, burying his face in my neck.I’m sorry I took so long, he whispers in my ear.
     ― Penelope Douglas, Birthday Girl
The back of my neck breaks out in a sweat, and I’m getting nervous. Why is he just standing there, staring at me? What do you want? I press, my tone curt.He opens his mouth but then closes it swallowing.Pike, Jesus—The day you left, he blurts out, and I stop.I wait, listening as a look of fear crosses his eyes.The house was so empty, he continues. Like a quiet that was never there before. I couldn’t hear your footsteps upstairs or your hairdryer or anticipate you walking into a room. You were gone. Everything was… he drops his eyes, gone.A ball lodges in my throat, and I feel tears threaten, but I tense my jaw, refusing to let it out.But I could still feel you, he whispers. You were still everywhere. The container of cookies in the fridge, the backsplash you picked out, the way you put all my pictures back in the wrong spot after you dusted my bookshelves. He smiles to himself. But I couldn’t rearrange them, because you were the last to touch them, and I wanted everything the way you had it.My chin trembles, and I fold my arms over my chest, hiding my balled fists under my arms.He pauses and then goes on. Nothing would ever go back to the way it was before you came into my house. I didn’t want it to. He shakes his head. I went to work, and I came home, and I stayed there every night and all weekend, every weekend, because that’s where we were together. That’s where I could still feel you. He steps closer, dropping his voice. That’s where I could wrap myself up in you and hang on to every last thread in that house that proved you were mine for just a little while.His tone grows thick, and I see his eyes water.I really thought I was doing what was best, he says, knitting his brow. I thought I was taking advantage of you, because you’re young and beautiful and so happy and hopeful despite everything you’d been through. You made me feel like the world was a big place again.My breathing shakes, and I don’t know what to do. I hate that he’s here. I hate that I love that he’s here. I hate him.I couldn’t steal your life from you and keep you to myself, you know? he explains. But then I realized that you’re not happy or hopeful or making me feel good because you’re young. You are those things and you’re capable of those things, because you’re a good person. It’s who you are.A tear spills over, gliding down my cheek.Baby, he whispers, his hands shaking. I hope you love me, because I love you like crazy, and I’m going to want you the rest of my life. I tried to stay away, because I thought it was the right thing, but I fucking can’t. I need you, and I love you. This doesn’t happen twice, and I’m not going to be stupid again. I promise.My chin trembles, and something lodges in my throat, and I try to hold it in, but I can’t. My face cracks, and I break down, turning away from him. The tears come like a goddamn waterfall, and I hate him. I fucking hate him.His arms are around me in a second, and he hugs me from behind, burying his face in my neck.I’m sorry I took so long, he whispers in my ear. ― Penelope Douglas, Birthday Girl

The back of my neck breaks out in a sweat, and I’m getting nervous. Why is he just standing there, staring at me? What do you want? I press, my tone curt.He opens his mouth but then closes it swallowing.Pike, Jesus—The day you left, he blurts out, and I stop.I wait, listening as a look of fear crosses his eyes.The house was so empty, he continues. Like a quiet that was never there before. I couldn’t hear your footsteps upstairs or your hairdryer or anticipate you walking into a room. You were gone. Everything was… he drops his eyes, gone.A ball lodges in my throat, and I feel tears threaten, but I tense my jaw, refusing to let it out.But I could still feel you, he whispers. You were still everywhere. The container of cookies in the fridge, the backsplash you picked out, the way you put all my pictures back in the wrong spot after you dusted my bookshelves. He smiles to himself. But I couldn’t rearrange them, because you were the last to touch them, and I wanted everything the way you had it.My chin trembles, and I fold my arms over my chest, hiding my balled fists under my arms.He pauses and then goes on. Nothing would ever go back to the way it was before you came into my house. I didn’t want it to. He shakes his head. I went to work, and I came home, and I stayed there every night and all weekend, every weekend, because that’s where we were together. That’s where I could still feel you. He steps closer, dropping his voice. That’s where I could wrap myself up in you and hang on to every last thread in that house that proved you were mine for just a little while.His tone grows thick, and I see his eyes water.I really thought I was doing what was best, he says, knitting his brow. I thought I was taking advantage of you, because you’re young and beautiful and so happy and hopeful despite everything you’d been through. You made me feel like the world was a big place again.My breathing shakes, and I don’t know what to do. I hate that he’s here. I hate that I love that he’s here. I hate him.I couldn’t steal your life from you and keep you to myself, you know? he explains. But then I realized that you’re not happy or hopeful or making me feel good because you’re young. You are those things and you’re capable of those things, because you’re a good person. It’s who you are.A tear spills over, gliding down my cheek.Baby, he whispers, his hands shaking. I hope you love me, because I love you like crazy, and I’m going to want you the rest of my life. I tried to stay away, because I thought it was the right thing, but I fucking can’t. I need you, and I love you. This doesn’t happen twice, and I’m not going to be stupid again. I promise.My chin trembles, and something lodges in my throat, and I try to hold it in, but I can’t. My face cracks, and I break down, turning away from him. The tears come like a goddamn waterfall, and I hate him. I fucking hate him.His arms are around me in a second, and he hugs me from behind, burying his face in my neck.I’m sorry I took so long, he whispers in my ear.
― Penelope Douglas, Birthday Girl

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Birthday Card To #BarbadosYou are 166 sq milesof sweet, undulating beauty-replete with richness and contradiction. I could never be all I am…without you,Never knew how hard I’d fall – especially when I am away from you.Happy Birthday, Bim ― Sandra Sealy, Chronicles Of A Seawoman: A Collection Of Poems

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Birthday Card To #BarbadosYou are 166 sq milesof sweet, undulating beauty-replete with richness and contradiction. I could never be all I am...without you,Never knew how hard I'd fall - especially when I am away from you.Happy Birthday, Bim
     ― Sandra Sealy,
  
    
      Chronicles Of A Seawoman: A Collection Of Poems
Birthday Card To #BarbadosYou are 166 sq milesof sweet, undulating beauty-replete with richness and contradiction. I could never be all I am...without you,Never knew how hard I'd fall - especially when I am away from you.Happy Birthday, Bim ― Sandra Sealy, Chronicles Of A Seawoman: A Collection Of Poems

Birthday Card To #BarbadosYou are 166 sq milesof sweet, undulating beauty-replete with richness and contradiction. I could never be all I am…without you,Never knew how hard I’d fall – especially when I am away from you.Happy Birthday, Bim
― Sandra Sealy,

Chronicles Of A Seawoman: A Collection Of Poems

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In social situations like this, like when you find yourself in an elevator with someone who keeps humming Happy Birthday to his socks, you pretend the weird person isn’t there. ― C.L. Lynch, Chemistry

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In social situations like this, like when you find yourself in an elevator with someone who keeps humming Happy Birthday to his socks, you pretend the weird person isn't there.
     ― C.L. Lynch,
  
    
      Chemistry
In social situations like this, like when you find yourself in an elevator with someone who keeps humming Happy Birthday to his socks, you pretend the weird person isn't there. ― C.L. Lynch, Chemistry

In social situations like this, like when you find yourself in an elevator with someone who keeps humming Happy Birthday to his socks, you pretend the weird person isn’t there.
― C.L. Lynch,

Chemistry

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In the morning, I jumped out of bed with a burst of excitement, the song Child of Mine playing in my head. Happy birthday to me! I’d been wanting a baby for the past several years, and finding a donor I felt so comfortable with seemed like the best birthday present ever. Heading to the computer, I smiled at my good fortune—I was really going to do this. I typed in the sperm bank’s URL, found the donor’s profile, and read it all over again. I was just as certain as I’d been the night before that he was The One—the one that would make sense to my child when he or she asked why, of all the possible donors, I chose this guy. I placed the donor in my online shopping cart—just as I might with a book on Amazon—double-checked the order, then clicked Purchase Vials. I’m having a baby! I thought. The moment felt monumental. As the order processed, I planned what I had to do next: Make an appointment for the insemination, buy prenatal vitamins, put together a baby registry, get the baby’s room set up. Between thoughts, I noticed that my order was taking a while to complete. The rotating circle on my screen, known as the spinning wheel of death, seemed to be spinning for an unusually long time. I waited, waited some more, and finally tried using the back button in case my computer was crashing. But nothing happened. Finally, the spinning wheel of death disappeared and a message popped up: Out of stock. Out of stock? I figured there must be some computer glitch—maybe when I pressed the back button?—so I speed-dialed the sperm bank and asked for Kathleen, but she was out and I got transferred to a customer-service rep named Barb. Barb looked into the matter and determined that this was no glitch. I’d selected a very popular donor, she said. She went on to explain that popular donors went quickly and that, while the company tried to restock their inventory often, there was a six-month hold for it so it could get quarantined and tested. Even when the inventory was made available, she said, there still might be a long wait, because some people had placed it on back order. As Barb spoke, I thought of how Kathleen had called just yesterday. Now it occurred to me that maybe she’d suggested this donor to several women. Like me, maybe many women had bonded with Kathleen over her honest appraisals of semen. ― Lori Gottlieb, Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: A Therapist, Her Therapist, and Our Lives Revealed

0
In the morning, I jumped out of bed with a burst of excitement, the song Child of Mine playing in my head. Happy birthday to me! I’d been wanting a baby for the past several years, and finding a donor I felt so comfortable with seemed like the best birthday present ever. Heading to the computer, I smiled at my good fortune—I was really going to do this. I typed in the sperm bank’s URL, found the donor’s profile, and read it all over again. I was just as certain as I’d been the night before that he was The One—the one that would make sense to my child when he or she asked why, of all the possible donors, I chose this guy. I placed the donor in my online shopping cart—just as I might with a book on Amazon—double-checked the order, then clicked Purchase Vials. I’m having a baby! I thought. The moment felt monumental. As the order processed, I planned what I had to do next: Make an appointment for the insemination, buy prenatal vitamins, put together a baby registry, get the baby’s room set up. Between thoughts, I noticed that my order was taking a while to complete. The rotating circle on my screen, known as the spinning wheel of death, seemed to be spinning for an unusually long time. I waited, waited some more, and finally tried using the back button in case my computer was crashing. But nothing happened. Finally, the spinning wheel of death disappeared and a message popped up: Out of stock. Out of stock? I figured there must be some computer glitch—maybe when I pressed the back button?—so I speed-dialed the sperm bank and asked for Kathleen, but she was out and I got transferred to a customer-service rep named Barb. Barb looked into the matter and determined that this was no glitch. I’d selected a very popular donor, she said. She went on to explain that popular donors went quickly and that, while the company tried to restock their inventory often, there was a six-month hold for it so it could get quarantined and tested. Even when the inventory was made available, she said, there still might be a long wait, because some people had placed it on back order. As Barb spoke, I thought of how Kathleen had called just yesterday. Now it occurred to me that maybe she’d suggested this donor to several women. Like me, maybe many women had bonded with Kathleen over her honest appraisals of semen.
     ― Lori Gottlieb,
  
    
      Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: A Therapist, Her Therapist, and Our Lives Revealed
In the morning, I jumped out of bed with a burst of excitement, the song Child of Mine playing in my head. Happy birthday to me! I’d been wanting a baby for the past several years, and finding a donor I felt so comfortable with seemed like the best birthday present ever. Heading to the computer, I smiled at my good fortune—I was really going to do this. I typed in the sperm bank’s URL, found the donor’s profile, and read it all over again. I was just as certain as I’d been the night before that he was The One—the one that would make sense to my child when he or she asked why, of all the possible donors, I chose this guy. I placed the donor in my online shopping cart—just as I might with a book on Amazon—double-checked the order, then clicked Purchase Vials. I’m having a baby! I thought. The moment felt monumental. As the order processed, I planned what I had to do next: Make an appointment for the insemination, buy prenatal vitamins, put together a baby registry, get the baby’s room set up. Between thoughts, I noticed that my order was taking a while to complete. The rotating circle on my screen, known as the spinning wheel of death, seemed to be spinning for an unusually long time. I waited, waited some more, and finally tried using the back button in case my computer was crashing. But nothing happened. Finally, the spinning wheel of death disappeared and a message popped up: Out of stock. Out of stock? I figured there must be some computer glitch—maybe when I pressed the back button?—so I speed-dialed the sperm bank and asked for Kathleen, but she was out and I got transferred to a customer-service rep named Barb. Barb looked into the matter and determined that this was no glitch. I’d selected a very popular donor, she said. She went on to explain that popular donors went quickly and that, while the company tried to restock their inventory often, there was a six-month hold for it so it could get quarantined and tested. Even when the inventory was made available, she said, there still might be a long wait, because some people had placed it on back order. As Barb spoke, I thought of how Kathleen had called just yesterday. Now it occurred to me that maybe she’d suggested this donor to several women. Like me, maybe many women had bonded with Kathleen over her honest appraisals of semen. ― Lori Gottlieb, Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: A Therapist, Her Therapist, and Our Lives Revealed

In the morning, I jumped out of bed with a burst of excitement, the song Child of Mine playing in my head. Happy birthday to me! I’d been wanting a baby for the past several years, and finding a donor I felt so comfortable with seemed like the best birthday present ever. Heading to the computer, I smiled at my good fortune—I was really going to do this. I typed in the sperm bank’s URL, found the donor’s profile, and read it all over again. I was just as certain as I’d been the night before that he was The One—the one that would make sense to my child when he or she asked why, of all the possible donors, I chose this guy. I placed the donor in my online shopping cart—just as I might with a book on Amazon—double-checked the order, then clicked Purchase Vials. I’m having a baby! I thought. The moment felt monumental. As the order processed, I planned what I had to do next: Make an appointment for the insemination, buy prenatal vitamins, put together a baby registry, get the baby’s room set up. Between thoughts, I noticed that my order was taking a while to complete. The rotating circle on my screen, known as the spinning wheel of death, seemed to be spinning for an unusually long time. I waited, waited some more, and finally tried using the back button in case my computer was crashing. But nothing happened. Finally, the spinning wheel of death disappeared and a message popped up: Out of stock. Out of stock? I figured there must be some computer glitch—maybe when I pressed the back button?—so I speed-dialed the sperm bank and asked for Kathleen, but she was out and I got transferred to a customer-service rep named Barb. Barb looked into the matter and determined that this was no glitch. I’d selected a very popular donor, she said. She went on to explain that popular donors went quickly and that, while the company tried to restock their inventory often, there was a six-month hold for it so it could get quarantined and tested. Even when the inventory was made available, she said, there still might be a long wait, because some people had placed it on back order. As Barb spoke, I thought of how Kathleen had called just yesterday. Now it occurred to me that maybe she’d suggested this donor to several women. Like me, maybe many women had bonded with Kathleen over her honest appraisals of semen.
― Lori Gottlieb,

Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: A Therapist, Her Therapist, and Our Lives Revealed

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Happy birthday to me, Jake thought, then puked again. ― E.G. Foley, Rise Of Allies

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Happy birthday to me, Jake thought, then puked again.
     ― E.G. Foley,
  
    
      Rise Of Allies
Happy birthday to me, Jake thought, then puked again. ― E.G. Foley, Rise Of Allies

Happy birthday to me, Jake thought, then puked again.
― E.G. Foley,

Rise Of Allies

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Outside the snapdragons, cords of light. Today is easy as weeds & winds & early. Green hills shift green. Cardinals peck at feeders—an air seed salted. A power line across the road blows blue bolts. Crickets make crickets in the grass.We are made & remade together. An ant circles the sugar cube. Our shadow’s a blown sail running blue over cracked tiles. Cool glistening pours from the tap, even on the edges. A red wire, a live red wire, a temperature.Time, in balanced soil, grows inside the snapdragons. In the sizzling cast iron, a cut skin, a sunny side runs yellow across the pan. Silver pots throw a blue shadow across the range. We must carry this the length of our lives.Tall stones lining the garden flower at once. Tin stars burst bold & celestial from the fridge; blue applause. Morning winds crash the columbines; the turf nods. Two reeling petal-whorls gleam & break.Cartoon sheep are wool & want. Happy birthday oak; perfect in another ring. Branch shadows fall across the window in perfect accident without weight. Orange sponge a thousand suds to a squeeze, know your water.School bus, may you never rust, always catching scraps of children’s laughter. Add a few phrases to the sunrise, and the pinks pop. Garlic, ginger, and mangoes hang in tiers in a cradle of red wire. That paw at the door is a soft complaint.Corolla of petals, lean a little toward the light. Everything the worms do for the hills is a secret & enough. Floating sheep turn to wonder. Cracking typewriter, send forth your fire. Watched too long, tin stars throw a tantrum. In the closet in the dust the untouched accordion grows unclean along the white bone of keys. Wrapped in a branch, a canvas balloon, a piece of punctuation signaling the end. Holy honeysuckle, stand in your favorite position, beside the sandbox.The stripes on the couch are running out of color. Perfect in their polished silver, knives in the drawer are still asleep. A May of buzz, a stinger of hot honey, a drip of candy building inside a hive & picking up the pace. Sweetness completes each cell. In the fridge, the juice of a plucked pear. In another month, another set of moths. A mosquito is a moment. Sketched sheep are rather invincible, a destiny trimmed with flouncy ribbon. A basset hound, a paw flick bitching at black fleas.Tonight, maybe we could circle the floodwaters, find some perfect stones to skip across the light or we can float in the swimming pool on our backs—the stars shooting cells of light at each other (cosmic tag)—and watch this little opera, faults & all. ― Kevin Phan, Gulf Coast: A Journal of Literature and Fine Arts

0
Outside the snapdragons, cords of light. Today is easy as weeds & winds & early. Green hills shift green. Cardinals peck at feeders—an air seed salted. A power line across the road blows blue bolts. Crickets make crickets in the grass.We are made & remade together. An ant circles the sugar cube. Our shadow’s a blown sail running blue over cracked tiles. Cool glistening pours from the tap, even on the edges. A red wire, a live red wire, a temperature.Time, in balanced soil, grows inside the snapdragons. In the sizzling cast iron, a cut skin, a sunny side runs yellow across the pan. Silver pots throw a blue shadow across the range. We must carry this the length of our lives.Tall stones lining the garden flower at once. Tin stars burst bold & celestial from the fridge; blue applause. Morning winds crash the columbines; the turf nods. Two reeling petal-whorls gleam & break.Cartoon sheep are wool & want. Happy birthday oak; perfect in another ring. Branch shadows fall across the window in perfect accident without weight. Orange sponge a thousand suds to a squeeze, know your water.School bus, may you never rust, always catching scraps of children’s laughter. Add a few phrases to the sunrise, and the pinks pop. Garlic, ginger, and mangoes hang in tiers in a cradle of red wire. That paw at the door is a soft complaint.Corolla of petals, lean a little toward the light. Everything the worms do for the hills is a secret & enough. Floating sheep turn to wonder. Cracking typewriter, send forth your fire. Watched too long, tin stars throw a tantrum. In the closet in the dust the untouched accordion grows unclean along the white bone of keys. Wrapped in a branch, a canvas balloon, a piece of punctuation signaling the end. Holy honeysuckle, stand in your favorite position, beside the sandbox.The stripes on the couch are running out of color. Perfect in their polished silver, knives in the drawer are still asleep. A May of buzz, a stinger of hot honey, a drip of candy building inside a hive & picking up the pace. Sweetness completes each cell. In the fridge, the juice of a plucked pear. In another month, another set of moths. A mosquito is a moment. Sketched sheep are rather invincible, a destiny trimmed with flouncy ribbon. A basset hound, a paw flick bitching at black fleas.Tonight, maybe we could circle the floodwaters, find some perfect stones to skip across the light or we can float in the swimming pool on our backs—the stars shooting cells of light at each other (cosmic tag)—and watch this little opera, faults & all.
     ― Kevin Phan,
  
    
      Gulf Coast: A Journal of Literature and Fine Arts
Outside the snapdragons, cords of light. Today is easy as weeds & winds & early. Green hills shift green. Cardinals peck at feeders—an air seed salted. A power line across the road blows blue bolts. Crickets make crickets in the grass.We are made & remade together. An ant circles the sugar cube. Our shadow’s a blown sail running blue over cracked tiles. Cool glistening pours from the tap, even on the edges. A red wire, a live red wire, a temperature.Time, in balanced soil, grows inside the snapdragons. In the sizzling cast iron, a cut skin, a sunny side runs yellow across the pan. Silver pots throw a blue shadow across the range. We must carry this the length of our lives.Tall stones lining the garden flower at once. Tin stars burst bold & celestial from the fridge; blue applause. Morning winds crash the columbines; the turf nods. Two reeling petal-whorls gleam & break.Cartoon sheep are wool & want. Happy birthday oak; perfect in another ring. Branch shadows fall across the window in perfect accident without weight. Orange sponge a thousand suds to a squeeze, know your water.School bus, may you never rust, always catching scraps of children’s laughter. Add a few phrases to the sunrise, and the pinks pop. Garlic, ginger, and mangoes hang in tiers in a cradle of red wire. That paw at the door is a soft complaint.Corolla of petals, lean a little toward the light. Everything the worms do for the hills is a secret & enough. Floating sheep turn to wonder. Cracking typewriter, send forth your fire. Watched too long, tin stars throw a tantrum. In the closet in the dust the untouched accordion grows unclean along the white bone of keys. Wrapped in a branch, a canvas balloon, a piece of punctuation signaling the end. Holy honeysuckle, stand in your favorite position, beside the sandbox.The stripes on the couch are running out of color. Perfect in their polished silver, knives in the drawer are still asleep. A May of buzz, a stinger of hot honey, a drip of candy building inside a hive & picking up the pace. Sweetness completes each cell. In the fridge, the juice of a plucked pear. In another month, another set of moths. A mosquito is a moment. Sketched sheep are rather invincible, a destiny trimmed with flouncy ribbon. A basset hound, a paw flick bitching at black fleas.Tonight, maybe we could circle the floodwaters, find some perfect stones to skip across the light or we can float in the swimming pool on our backs—the stars shooting cells of light at each other (cosmic tag)—and watch this little opera, faults & all. ― Kevin Phan, Gulf Coast: A Journal of Literature and Fine Arts

Outside the snapdragons, cords of light. Today is easy as weeds & winds & early. Green hills shift green. Cardinals peck at feeders—an air seed salted. A power line across the road blows blue bolts. Crickets make crickets in the grass.We are made & remade together. An ant circles the sugar cube. Our shadow’s a blown sail running blue over cracked tiles. Cool glistening pours from the tap, even on the edges. A red wire, a live red wire, a temperature.Time, in balanced soil, grows inside the snapdragons. In the sizzling cast iron, a cut skin, a sunny side runs yellow across the pan. Silver pots throw a blue shadow across the range. We must carry this the length of our lives.Tall stones lining the garden flower at once. Tin stars burst bold & celestial from the fridge; blue applause. Morning winds crash the columbines; the turf nods. Two reeling petal-whorls gleam & break.Cartoon sheep are wool & want. Happy birthday oak; perfect in another ring. Branch shadows fall across the window in perfect accident without weight. Orange sponge a thousand suds to a squeeze, know your water.School bus, may you never rust, always catching scraps of children’s laughter. Add a few phrases to the sunrise, and the pinks pop. Garlic, ginger, and mangoes hang in tiers in a cradle of red wire. That paw at the door is a soft complaint.Corolla of petals, lean a little toward the light. Everything the worms do for the hills is a secret & enough. Floating sheep turn to wonder. Cracking typewriter, send forth your fire. Watched too long, tin stars throw a tantrum. In the closet in the dust the untouched accordion grows unclean along the white bone of keys. Wrapped in a branch, a canvas balloon, a piece of punctuation signaling the end. Holy honeysuckle, stand in your favorite position, beside the sandbox.The stripes on the couch are running out of color. Perfect in their polished silver, knives in the drawer are still asleep. A May of buzz, a stinger of hot honey, a drip of candy building inside a hive & picking up the pace. Sweetness completes each cell. In the fridge, the juice of a plucked pear. In another month, another set of moths. A mosquito is a moment. Sketched sheep are rather invincible, a destiny trimmed with flouncy ribbon. A basset hound, a paw flick bitching at black fleas.Tonight, maybe we could circle the floodwaters, find some perfect stones to skip across the light or we can float in the swimming pool on our backs—the stars shooting cells of light at each other (cosmic tag)—and watch this little opera, faults & all.
― Kevin Phan,

Gulf Coast: A Journal of Literature and Fine Arts

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In fact, reading is a discipline: like running regularly, or meditating, or taking voice lessons. Any able adult can run across the backyard, but this ability to put one foot in front of another shouldn’t make him think that he can tackle a marathon without serious, time-consuming training. Most of us can manage to sing Happy Birthday or the Doxology when called for, but this doesn’t incline us to march down to the local performing arts center and try out for the lead in Aida. Yet because we can read the newspaper or Time or Stephen King without difficulty, we tend to think that we should be able to go directly into Homer or Henry James without any further preparation. And when we stumble, grow confused or weary, we take this as proof of our mental inadequacy: We’ll never be able to read the Great Books. The truth is that the study of literature requires different skills than reading for pleasure. The inability to tackle, unaided, a list of Great Books and stick to the project doesn’t demonstrate mental inadequacy—just a lack of preparation. ― Susan Wise Bauer, The Well-Educated Mind: A Guide to the Classical Education You Never Had

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In fact, reading is a discipline: like running regularly, or meditating, or taking voice lessons. Any able adult can run across the backyard, but this ability to put one foot in front of another shouldn’t make him think that he can tackle a marathon without serious, time-consuming training. Most of us can manage to sing Happy Birthday or the Doxology when called for, but this doesn’t incline us to march down to the local performing arts center and try out for the lead in Aida. Yet because we can read the newspaper or Time or Stephen King without difficulty, we tend to think that we should be able to go directly into Homer or Henry James without any further preparation. And when we stumble, grow confused or weary, we take this as proof of our mental inadequacy: We’ll never be able to read the Great Books. The truth is that the study of literature requires different skills than reading for pleasure. The inability to tackle, unaided, a list of Great Books and stick to the project doesn’t demonstrate mental inadequacy—just a lack of preparation.
     ― Susan Wise Bauer,
  
    
      The Well-Educated Mind: A Guide to the Classical Education You Never Had
In fact, reading is a discipline: like running regularly, or meditating, or taking voice lessons. Any able adult can run across the backyard, but this ability to put one foot in front of another shouldn’t make him think that he can tackle a marathon without serious, time-consuming training. Most of us can manage to sing Happy Birthday or the Doxology when called for, but this doesn’t incline us to march down to the local performing arts center and try out for the lead in Aida. Yet because we can read the newspaper or Time or Stephen King without difficulty, we tend to think that we should be able to go directly into Homer or Henry James without any further preparation. And when we stumble, grow confused or weary, we take this as proof of our mental inadequacy: We’ll never be able to read the Great Books. The truth is that the study of literature requires different skills than reading for pleasure. The inability to tackle, unaided, a list of Great Books and stick to the project doesn’t demonstrate mental inadequacy—just a lack of preparation. ― Susan Wise Bauer, The Well-Educated Mind: A Guide to the Classical Education You Never Had

In fact, reading is a discipline: like running regularly, or meditating, or taking voice lessons. Any able adult can run across the backyard, but this ability to put one foot in front of another shouldn’t make him think that he can tackle a marathon without serious, time-consuming training. Most of us can manage to sing Happy Birthday or the Doxology when called for, but this doesn’t incline us to march down to the local performing arts center and try out for the lead in Aida. Yet because we can read the newspaper or Time or Stephen King without difficulty, we tend to think that we should be able to go directly into Homer or Henry James without any further preparation. And when we stumble, grow confused or weary, we take this as proof of our mental inadequacy: We’ll never be able to read the Great Books. The truth is that the study of literature requires different skills than reading for pleasure. The inability to tackle, unaided, a list of Great Books and stick to the project doesn’t demonstrate mental inadequacy—just a lack of preparation.
― Susan Wise Bauer,

The Well-Educated Mind: A Guide to the Classical Education You Never Had

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Often, when you ask what love is, many people just list all the good feelings. Love is the collection of only very positive emotions, such as ‘pink romance’ or ‘feeling like floating on clouds’.신용과 신뢰의 거래로 많은VIP고객님들 모시고 싶은것이 저희쪽 경영 목표입니다믿음과 신뢰의 거래로 신용성있는비즈니스 진행하고있습니다비즈니스는 신용과신뢰가 첫째입니다믿고 주문하시는것만큼 저희는 확실한제품으로 모시겠습니다.▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲애더럴은 주의력 결핍증(ADD)을 가진 사람에게만 판매해야 하는 처방약으로 주요 성분인 암페타민은 집중력을 강화하는 효과가 있는 것으로 알려져 있다아이비 리그의 한 대학에 재학중인 한인학생 B씨도 애더럴의 도움을 받고 있다. “먹은 후에는 똑똑해진 느낌이 들고 두뇌활동이 최고조에 이르는 것 같다. 애더럴을 먹으면 10시간을 쉼 없이 공부할 수 있다” 그는 “커피와 애더럴을 잔뜩 먹고 52시간을 연속으로 공부한 적도 있다”고 털어놓았다.그러나 부작용의 우려도 크다. ‘국립 약물 남용 연구소(NIDA)’ 과학정책부의 루벤 베일러 박사는 본보와의 전화통화에서 (애더럴의 주요 성분인) 암페타민은 도파민을 분비시키는데 이는 코케인을 비롯한 마약의 작용과 동일하다. 처방전이나 의사의 지시 없이 복용하면 중독의 위험이 매우 크다고 말했다.▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲☆━◆『카톡【AKR331】라인【SPR331】위커【SPR705】텔레【HIDDEN331】 』◆━☆애더럴 효과, 애더럴 약효, 애더럴 효능, 애더럴 복용법, 애더럴 부작용, 애더럴 구입, 애더럴 정품구입, 애더럴 구입방법, 애더럴 구매, 애더럴 판매, 애더럴 가격, 애더럴 파는곳, 애더럴 구매방법, 애더럴 효과, 애더럴 복용법, 애더럴 부작용, 애더럴 지속시간, 애더럴 약효, 애더럴 효능, 애더럴 구입, 애더럴 구매, 애더럴 판매, 애더럴 가격, 애더럴 파는곳, 애더럴 구입방법, 애더럴 구매방법, 애더럴 정품구입But feelings that make love are not just positive feelings. It is a ‘strong’ feeling that goes back and forth between the positive and negative sides of extreme emotions (Na Eun, 2002). Of course, love must be a very positive emotion, but that’s not all. This is because the feeling of love includes not only the positive feelings of the two when they meet each other, but also the intense negative feelings such as longing or regret that they feel when they cannot see what they want to see right away.For example, if your friend gives you a birthday present, you’re happy. However, if a lover gives a birthday present, I am very happy, and if I forget my birthday, I am very sad. The more loved ones are, the more delighted they are to be good to them (mostly this is only love), and the more sad they are to meet their expectations. In severe cases, a broken heart loses its meaning and may commit suicide. Like this, ‘love’ can be said to be a strong emotion moving back and forth between very positive and very negative emotions. ― 애더럴구입처구매

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Often, when you ask what love is, many people just list all the good feelings. Love is the collection of only very positive emotions, such as ‘pink romance’ or ‘feeling like floating on clouds’.신용과 신뢰의 거래로 많은VIP고객님들 모시고 싶은것이 저희쪽 경영 목표입니다믿음과 신뢰의 거래로 신용성있는비즈니스 진행하고있습니다비즈니스는 신용과신뢰가 첫째입니다믿고 주문하시는것만큼 저희는 확실한제품으로 모시겠습니다.▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲애더럴은 주의력 결핍증(ADD)을 가진 사람에게만 판매해야 하는 처방약으로 주요 성분인 암페타민은 집중력을 강화하는 효과가 있는 것으로 알려져 있다아이비 리그의 한 대학에 재학중인 한인학생 B씨도 애더럴의 도움을 받고 있다. “먹은 후에는 똑똑해진 느낌이 들고 두뇌활동이 최고조에 이르는 것 같다. 애더럴을 먹으면 10시간을 쉼 없이 공부할 수 있다” 그는 “커피와 애더럴을 잔뜩 먹고 52시간을 연속으로 공부한 적도 있다”고 털어놓았다.그러나 부작용의 우려도 크다. ‘국립 약물 남용 연구소(NIDA)’ 과학정책부의 루벤 베일러 박사는 본보와의 전화통화에서 (애더럴의 주요 성분인) 암페타민은 도파민을 분비시키는데 이는 코케인을 비롯한 마약의 작용과 동일하다. 처방전이나 의사의 지시 없이 복용하면 중독의 위험이 매우 크다고 말했다.▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲▼▲☆━◆『카톡【AKR331】라인【SPR331】위커【SPR705】텔레【HIDDEN331】 』◆━☆애더럴 효과, 애더럴 약효, 애더럴 효능, 애더럴 복용법, 애더럴 부작용, 애더럴 구입, 애더럴 정품구입, 애더럴 구입방법, 애더럴 구매, 애더럴 판매, 애더럴 가격, 애더럴 파는곳, 애더럴 구매방법, 애더럴 효과, 애더럴 복용법, 애더럴 부작용, 애더럴 지속시간, 애더럴 약효, 애더럴 효능, 애더럴 구입, 애더럴 구매, 애더럴 판매, 애더럴 가격, 애더럴 파는곳, 애더럴 구입방법, 애더럴 구매방법, 애더럴 정품구입But feelings that make love are not just positive feelings. It is a ‘strong’ feeling that goes back and forth between the positive and negative sides of extreme emotions (Na Eun, 2002). Of course, love must be a very positive emotion, but that’s not all. This is because the feeling of love includes not only the positive feelings of the two when they meet each other, but also the intense negative feelings such as longing or regret that they feel when they cannot see what they want to see right away.For example, if your friend gives you a birthday present, you’re happy. However, if a lover gives a birthday present, I am very happy, and if I forget my birthday, I am very sad. The more loved ones are, the more delighted they are to be good to them (mostly this is only love), and the more sad they are to meet their expectations. In severe cases, a broken heart loses its meaning and may commit suicide. Like this, ‘love’ can be said to be a strong emotion moving back and forth between very positive and very negative emotions.
― 애더럴구입처구매

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زبون : أين أجد قسم الكتب الشعرية؟البائعة : إنه هناك. زبون :عظيم، هل تعرفين من كتب القصيدة التي تقول : (Happy birthday to you, you live in a zoo, you look like a monkey, and you smell like one too) ..البائعة : . . . ― جين كامبل, Weird Things Customers Say in Bookshops

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زبون : أين أجد قسم الكتب الشعرية؟البائعة : إنه هناك. زبون :عظيم، هل تعرفين من كتب القصيدة التي تقول : (Happy birthday to you, you live in a zoo, you look like a monkey, and you smell like one too) ..البائعة : . . .
     ― جين كامبل,
  
    
      Weird Things Customers Say in Bookshops
زبون : أين أجد قسم الكتب الشعرية؟البائعة : إنه هناك. زبون :عظيم، هل تعرفين من كتب القصيدة التي تقول : (Happy birthday to you, you live in a zoo, you look like a monkey, and you smell like one too) ..البائعة : . . . ― جين كامبل, Weird Things Customers Say in Bookshops

زبون : أين أجد قسم الكتب الشعرية؟البائعة : إنه هناك. زبون :عظيم، هل تعرفين من كتب القصيدة التي تقول : (Happy birthday to you, you live in a zoo, you look like a monkey, and you smell like one too) ..البائعة : . . .
― جين كامبل,

Weird Things Customers Say in Bookshops

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And I stood there, the fake mother between the genuine articles, Wendy and Mrs O’Flaherty. They seem to find it so easy; kids, husband, housework. To them, it comes as naturally as breathing. I just feel like I’m suffocating. Tilly hated the doll I got her. I don’t understand why she asked for it – she never plays with dolls. But still she went along with it, pretending to be pleased. But then Karen had to mention him: Stevie, the spectre at the feast. It wasn’t her fault, but that was the end of the ‘happy birthday’ game. The others went home and left us alone again. Tilly sat and looked at her presents. I could see that she was desperately holding herself together, like a sandcastle being lapped by the waves. And we both knew that the tide was coming in. I think she was doing it for me; protecting me from her hurt. She acts like she’s the mother and I’m the child. So what did I do? I drowned my sorrows. Again. Pathetic, despicable, worthless bitch that I am, I drank myself to sleep. Again. ― Ruth Hogan, Queenie Malone’s Paradise Hotel

0
And I stood there, the fake mother between the genuine articles, Wendy and Mrs O’Flaherty. They seem to find it so easy; kids, husband, housework. To them, it comes as naturally as breathing. I just feel like I’m suffocating. Tilly hated the doll I got her. I don’t understand why she asked for it – she never plays with dolls. But still she went along with it, pretending to be pleased. But then Karen had to mention him: Stevie, the spectre at the feast. It wasn’t her fault, but that was the end of the ‘happy birthday’ game. The others went home and left us alone again. Tilly sat and looked at her presents. I could see that she was desperately holding herself together, like a sandcastle being lapped by the waves. And we both knew that the tide was coming in. I think she was doing it for me; protecting me from her hurt. She acts like she’s the mother and I’m the child. So what did I do? I drowned my sorrows. Again. Pathetic, despicable, worthless bitch that I am, I drank myself to sleep. Again.
     ― Ruth Hogan,
  
    
      Queenie Malone's Paradise Hotel
And I stood there, the fake mother between the genuine articles, Wendy and Mrs O’Flaherty. They seem to find it so easy; kids, husband, housework. To them, it comes as naturally as breathing. I just feel like I’m suffocating. Tilly hated the doll I got her. I don’t understand why she asked for it – she never plays with dolls. But still she went along with it, pretending to be pleased. But then Karen had to mention him: Stevie, the spectre at the feast. It wasn’t her fault, but that was the end of the ‘happy birthday’ game. The others went home and left us alone again. Tilly sat and looked at her presents. I could see that she was desperately holding herself together, like a sandcastle being lapped by the waves. And we both knew that the tide was coming in. I think she was doing it for me; protecting me from her hurt. She acts like she’s the mother and I’m the child. So what did I do? I drowned my sorrows. Again. Pathetic, despicable, worthless bitch that I am, I drank myself to sleep. Again. ― Ruth Hogan, Queenie Malone's Paradise Hotel

And I stood there, the fake mother between the genuine articles, Wendy and Mrs O’Flaherty. They seem to find it so easy; kids, husband, housework. To them, it comes as naturally as breathing. I just feel like I’m suffocating. Tilly hated the doll I got her. I don’t understand why she asked for it – she never plays with dolls. But still she went along with it, pretending to be pleased. But then Karen had to mention him: Stevie, the spectre at the feast. It wasn’t her fault, but that was the end of the ‘happy birthday’ game. The others went home and left us alone again. Tilly sat and looked at her presents. I could see that she was desperately holding herself together, like a sandcastle being lapped by the waves. And we both knew that the tide was coming in. I think she was doing it for me; protecting me from her hurt. She acts like she’s the mother and I’m the child. So what did I do? I drowned my sorrows. Again. Pathetic, despicable, worthless bitch that I am, I drank myself to sleep. Again.
― Ruth Hogan,

Queenie Malone’s Paradise Hotel

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