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Full-Text Articles in Creative Writing
Pantoum: Young Victims Of War, Julie Nguyen
Pantoum: Rose Seeds, Jeffrey Wincek
May 18, Kylie Walsh
In Five Months- On Expectations, K M. Sellers
In Five Months- On Expectations, K M. Sellers
The Tuxedo Archives
No abstract provided.
Kat's Death, Marijke Pieters-Kwiers
How To Look Him In The Eyes, Kylie Walsh
America 2016, Veronika C Cuddy
Take Flight, Jeffrey Wincek
Shield, Bri Wilson
The Air Of Autumn, Michelle Sellers
Too Much, Maxine R. Patronik
Remember December, Michelle Sellers
October 15th, Jorden Tahquechi
Millennial Melancholy, Olivia Mckendrick
Lost And Found, Matthew C. Bronson
Divine, Alexander Turnage
Celestial, Kylie Walsh
Catholic Guilt, Kylie Walsh
Brief Reflection, Alison Erves
Boys Are Like Books, Katherine Peterson
America The Free, Marijke Pieters-Kwiers
Stubborn Love, Jesse Holliday
A Bit Odd, Alison Erves
Trying To Fix It, Alisha Ragon
Trying To Fix It, Alisha Ragon
The Tuxedo Archives
She was trying to fix it.
She walked in with purpose, and nerves on fire.
As hard as she tried to hold up her badass countenance, they could still tell she was tired. She walked with swagger, put distance between her steps. This convenience store’s law of awkward nondisclosure was helpful in self-defense. As messed up as she had become, there were still people here much more fucked than her. She said hello to the man at the counter, with lowered eyes. She avoided other consumers with grace; she simply stepped down the wrong aisle.
In The Beginning, Jeffrey Wincek
In The Beginning, Jeffrey Wincek
The Tuxedo Archives
In the beginning there was the Computer and the Screen, and the Computer was inert and void and darkness was over the face of the Screen. And the Author’s finger pressed the Power Button and the Computer Booted Up and there was Light on the face of the Screen. And the Author saw it was good.
Gil And Ki In Couples Therapy, Jeffrey Wincek
Gil And Ki In Couples Therapy, Jeffrey Wincek
The Tuxedo Archives
The office is tidy and uncluttered; tasteful and well lighted. The decor is mid-century modern with an occasional treasure from antiquity featured here and there: tiny bronze and terra cotta Nabatean oil lamps, Sumerian fetishes, facsimiles of baked clay tablets bearing cuneiform script. Other objects de vertu rest on rosewood bases or under glass on the desk and in bookcases. Except for a glorious Persian rug, ruby, topaz, lapis and carnelian in hue, the color scheme is muted and neutral. Dr. Esther Aalyah sits at her desk. She has a manila folder in front of her. There are colored tags …
F People Were Seasons, Yvonne Bamba
F People Were Seasons, Yvonne Bamba
The Tuxedo Archives
He and I are sitting in the middle of my staircase, squished together on the same step, our limbs overflowing and dangling off the edges. We have our respective beverages in hand—his beer and my glass of red wine—facing each other with our legs bent, contently intertwined. We already touched base on our weapons of choice for the zombie apocalypse, the sports and instruments and dreams we gave up on in high school, and whether our day was more like The Weeknd’s Can’t Feel My Face or Fetty Wap’s Trap Queen. Now, we’re brainstorming names for the future Alaskan husky …
A Story For Alex, Or For Me, Alisha Ragon
A Story For Alex, Or For Me, Alisha Ragon
The Tuxedo Archives
It was the whoring hour.
Ready the sheets and the lingerie.
Ready the moans and the delicious delights to be discovered.
Ready the bodies wanting and hungry.
Ready the minds, sore for distraction, aching for bliss.
Slowly the sliding of cloth, flesh venturing out into the open air
Hands gliding over the landscape of his torso; breath breaking from composure to ecstasy A landscape not her own. Breath not meant to be broken.
Rein it in.
The Clinic, Bri Wilson
The Clinic, Bri Wilson
The Tuxedo Archives
“What are you here for?”
Jeanette glanced up from her clasped hands. The questioner - a middle aged woman wearing a kitten sweater - stared at her expectantly.
Jeanette spun the ring around her fourth finger. “To forget,” she muttered. She should have taken it off.
The Shattering, Bri Wilson
The Shattering, Bri Wilson
The Tuxedo Archives
I’m dead. But I’m still here. My soul got left behind. I didn’t believe in souls but now I have to and
I don’t remember when I was last alive. My memories have been blurred, shaken, chopped. I can’t recall how it ended, there was a lot of pain, then it stopped. Suddenly.
(how did I die.)