Browse Sections

Lord Of The Wind

The Lord of the Wind was born unconscious of himself, during a storm that shook his egg from its nest and flung it from the tallest tree on the highest cliff downwind to the valley floor.

Emergency

It is, in a phrase aptly supplied by a nurse, like five hundred hells. Apparently the whole town has converged upon the hospital, all migrating to the Emergency Rooms.

Desire

Reluctantly he comes up the stairs, as if I am taking him away from much more exciting business than talking to his father. I am not sure exactly what to say. I do not want to damage his world of desire.

The Day Of Saint Valentine

And finally you’re a lady. You sleep with your cat, wash between your legs with washcloths, and go to the bathroom with the door closed. Lead weights fall on you.

Thesme And The Ghayrog

With exaggerated care Thesme rose to her knees, steadied herself, and crawled slowly toward the bed. She peered at the Ghayrog, but her eyes were blurred and she could make out only a rough outline of him.

Organic Gardening

You have watched your love kneeling, stretching, tugging weeds. Her muscles slide beneath her skin. She sweats where your tongue wants to be. And the good air fills you, and your body thrums from the inside out. You are an animal, naked in the grass, in the dirt. You are hot and you want.

M’Orgasms

Halfway up University, in front of Walt’s Drugs, I said, “Mom, I’ve never had an orgasm with a man.” I said the “with a man” under my breath but it got us off placemats. When mother was surprised she’d get a little smile on her top lip.

The Housesitting

Didn’t like hippie chicks anyway. Not clean. The kind he liked were always clean. Fastidiously clean. Eternally douched and perfumed, that’s the way he liked them.

Yellow Silk

Journal Of Erotic Arts

I’ve fallen in love with a magazine. Its name is Yellow Silk and its editor is Lily Pond. Does that sound improbable? Well, so is this unique and sassy literary journal, devoted exclusively to erotica, exuberantly different from all the other women’s and men’s magazines that sell sex.

Birds Don’t Get Well

Kenny sat thinking one day after they moved to the city where they lived on Palmwood Avenue, a brick street where sparrows seep-seeped washing themselves in the city dust by the curb.