The Furious Gazelle

Literary as hell.

Category: Writing (page 1 of 29)

“Four Cereal Bowls” by Donald Hubbard

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“Defendable Dog” by Aaron B. Jackson

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“The Other Side of the Story” by Darlene Patrick

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Poetry by David Prather

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Poetry by Susan Richardson

Gold Lamé

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“to the person who steals my mail although I check it often” by Esther E. D. Pratt

to the person who steals my mail although I check it often:

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Poetry by Donna Reis

Dawn Continue reading

“The Giants,” a poem by Holly Day

the giants sleep as the snow comes down

covering their lumbering bodies in sheets

of frozen white. their warm breath

carves holes in the unbroken

rolling hills, melts snow into  runoff.

 

the giants sleep as the village children Continue reading

Flash fiction by Michael Prihoda

The Year of Looking Up Friends on Our iPhones Only to Wonder Who We Actually Met

 

Chloe read the Magna Carta backward. I’m sure of it, whether you are or not. Please tell me we are not the last people on earth. Please tell me if I open the door I will find the mail in the box, maybe a couple bills we can pay on our meager salaries. There was a guy named Peter one of us knew from somewhere, not a support group, no, I never went to that one that met down the street from the place where somebody my parents used to know lived. People started dying long before we started living.

Freddy is not worth talking about.

Oh. Raquel is another story. Well, there was this one instance, and I only heard this from Cam, who happened to be with her at the party and eventually got her home completely without taking advantage of the situation whatsoever (considering Cam this is almost unbelievable and I don’t even need to include any euphemisms for you to know what sort of activity he refrained from that I find unbelievable yet enlightening because, perhaps, humanity has some baseline goodness left and since Cam was probably five to six rum and Cokes heavier than when he started the night that this story takes place on makes it all the more improbable yet uplifting/encouraging/inspiring). Anyway, Cam tells me stuff went down and Raquel happens to be lucky in that there is nothing worth remembering (in a good or bad sense) from the night because she definitely remembered zero of what transpired in perhaps the best possible way of not remembering zilch. Continue reading

Poetry by John Repp

Horticulture

 

after Ed Ochester

 

Because Judy had given me for Christmas

a lumpen pot she’d pinched & baked

right in her kitchen, I tried my first

African Violet just after New Year’s.

The cat nosed its four furry leaves,

so I braced a two-by-six where fan belts

had hung when the place was a gas station. Continue reading

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