It's not just a music on it's own...
By Byrne
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- 1024 reads
Waiting To Be Made
Speed prose that I hope to make into something...
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- 962 reads
A First
I've burnt myself, I think Sparks flew, landed on My breast, a fingertip, The little bony left wrist I've allowed too much wine into the house.
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- 688 reads
Accidents
Hatty does not even look up. When her mother curses or swears, her words rip out of her and her voice sounds like a tornado. Hatty doesn't care much for that voice, and pretends she hasn't heard. Once, after the tornado, June had grabbed Hatty and Bea by the hair, and smashed their heads together.
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- 950 reads
The Musician
First draft of a new short story
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- 614 reads