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A painter dies of a heart attack before finishing a portrait of Churchill.

There it was, the urge to hurt one’s neck by craning toward the dazzle.

Their marriage had dwindled to a separation and a running joke.

I yell at the boys: “What are you doing! Are you out of your minds?”

Knowing that it will end i saw myself again at the fair popping balloons

We boarded a ferry eager for foaming water rushing toward our feet.

They lived on the street, their mom a prostitute and heroin addict.

Your writing may need to be ruthless or amoral to be original.

Mostly, 90 percent of the time, the big ones trigger the bad attacks.

David, I don’t know how to say this, but I didn’t think you’d make it.

Surrender me to shallows and the salt gallop of a rising surf.

Please look away from Mars dangling so angry in so much darkness.

I care only about the little body wiggling in that plastic bassinet.

Our dog had held down what we had by pressing his belly to the floors.

Floods of faces, no sign of a pathway toward Bethlehem, shut off by blizzard.

“Then I can promise to kill either of you if I ever see you again.”

Every touch electric, every taste you, every smell, every cry.

Diane Kirsten Martin

shoulds & shouldn’ts unwound now to dids & didn’t

Paharganj reels with beggars. Old women, boys, breast-feeding girls.

As Ilya sauntered back toward us, I saw a boy with nothing to lose.

Not every fate was alike. Not everyone ended up paired off in love.

God doesn’t punish wrongdoing. Rewards multiply if tended to in secret.

Mikey said the hole wouldn’t lead to China, but he was frequently wrong.

I was creating art instead of counting beans like everyone else.

Vita brevis, source of all not enough. Light leaked from stopped time.

The story of a date over dinner—all in six words.

Their hands were acting as airfoils, producing lift, not drag.

There were women everywhere, all naked or nearly naked.

She had instinct for seeing what she could make happen.