Tag: writing
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Fiftieth Floor — Tap and Die 010
The main attendant scrolled through. And scrolled through. “No Dawes other than a young girl.” Jack’s daughter. And his wife?
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Slugs in the Fountain — Tap and Die 009
The main attendant scrolled through. And scrolled through. “No Dawes other than a young girl.” Jack’s daughter. And his wife?
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Fellow Dogs — Tap and Die 008
The main attendant scrolled through. And scrolled through. “No Dawes other than a young girl.” Jack’s daughter. And his wife?
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Lava gloves — Tap and Die 007
The main attendant scrolled through. And scrolled through. “No Dawes other than a young girl.” Jack’s daughter. And his wife?
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Redcrown — Tap and Die 006
The main attendant scrolled through. And scrolled through. “No Dawes other than a young girl.” Jack’s daughter. And his wife?
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Jack — Tap and Die 005
The main attendant scrolled through. And scrolled through. “No Dawes other than a young girl.” Jack’s daughter. And his wife?
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Dövë — Tap and Die 004
The main attendant scrolled through. And scrolled through. “No Dawes other than a young girl.” Jack’s daughter. And his wife?
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For Luck — Tap and Die 003
Frey didn’t think Jack would show. Jack hadn’t shown for nine months now: she could have been pregnant and had a baby in this time. He was always helping everyone else but her and Dövë. Or it felt that way. She saw the painting of the three of them surrounded by grandparents and cousins, and…
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Hollow Needle — Tap and Die 002
The Hollow Needle did not rise above the horizon, but sank into the great peak of Weststool, steam and smoke heralding it in a great circular halo. One of five new taps in Gergia, the opposite of towers, it drilled down into a too-wide hole. Seven carriage bridges—long stone pathways lit by gas lamps—led from…
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Honorifics — Tap and Die 001
The driver looked cockeyed at Black Jack Dawes’s half-frozen hands that held the other reins. The driver took kings and nobles all over the Ivrian side of the world, not crusty old tradesmen in khaki dusters, range hats, knee-high boots slathered in mud, and that black cloak with those unfixed stars on it. And no…
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never sit with your back to a bookcase
i want to say something good like blood into a basin of stars but i’ve stopped listening to myself at least i think i have i am rolling metaphors over & over & something like a simile across the desk i tie imagery into individual burlap sacks about to them drop into a well when…
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Pádraig Ó Tuama Holds Me in the Bed of the Poem
Pádraig Ó Tuama tells me the person is prayed into being by the direction of the light. At least, I think he says this, but I’m distracted by the soft breath of H that he pushes out from the click of his tongue while we bake scones in the house of the poem, while we…