Her even rot

Two things that have one thing in common but are great by themselves:

Black by Andrew Borgstrom at Abjective

AND

Ohey! by Darby Larson at Wigleaf

Dzanc Best of the Web 2010

As closure to my Dzanc all* Best of the Web in one place nominees & Dzanc all* Best of the Web in one place nominees – cont’d. posts, here is a partial list of works chosen by Kathy Fish, Matt Bell, and the editorial staff at Dzanc Books to be included their Best of the Web 2010 anthololgy.

Abjective
“Who’s there?”

Molly Gaudry, The Sky as John Saw It the Night Kate Sparkled

Alice Blue Review
I’m afraid if God saw me, he would very nearly recognize me.

Lucas Farrell, Translations of “My Refrigerator Light Makes Its Way Toward You” Into the 34 Languages Spoken in the Many Woods of Grief

Apparatus Magazine
my teeth played like the keys of a xylophone

Rachel Bunting,  Martha Stewart Claims She Has Been Struck by Lightning Three Times

The Barefoot Muse
Who was asking for you that you’ve come knocking on my door,/And looking like a single spark in an August of no rain?

James Scannell McCormick, Trouble

BluePrint Review
Dark clouds hang low, and she’d like to snag one with her fingernail.

Michelle Reale, Nostrum

Brevity
If you had a boy to love what would you not do?

Kyle Minor, Suspended

Carte Blanche Literary Review
To worry about snow is to be snow, bound; and snow’s where I got married and this picture of him running like a cartoon and his sad-happy eyes is like a canvas I can write anything I want.

Nanette Rayman-Rivera,  Sounds of Silence

Cerise Press
the discovery of snail warfare in the margins/of monastic manuscripts, the zero/that could hold an empty space, the neutron bomb,/the seedless tangerine.

Eleanor Wilner, Headlong for that Fair Target
Jie Li, The Taste of Mangoes

Emprise Review
Peonies, azalea, sweet-scented osmanthus—I beheaded/them all.

Barbara Yien, If You See Buddha on the Road, Kill Him

Everyday Genius
The trees are not enough.

Aaron Burch, How To
David McLendon, Penumbra
Peter Markus, What We Tell Girl to Do With Us Brothers If We Ever Stop Making Mud
Stephen Graham Jones, Modern Love

Failbetter.com
A man with such loneliness repels even the moon’s face in water.

Terese Svoboda, Swanbit

Fiction Weekly
They rested there, a man and a woman motionless holding hands, until the pounding of drums announced dinner.

Patricia O’Donnell, Gods for Sale

Fiction Writers Review
Withholding details—in other words, failing to communicate well—is a sign of a monster.

Christine Hartzler, Games Are Not About Monsters

FRiGG Magazine
She’s at the window, blowing smoke at the stars. “I’d pull them out by their roots if I could.”

Charles Lennox, Touching the Spine
Robert Bradley, Contemplations of the Saints

Gigantic
Nothing She said Would make me happier.

Sasha Fletcher, One Day All Your Teeth Will Be Mine

> kill author
He fans out his fingers and I feel his hand not as a certain thing, but as a variable, as a thing that can change.

Emma J. Lannie, Proxy
J. A. Tyler, Jimmy and his Father and the Ways About Them

Lamination Colony
The coals might pop and light the straw grass on fire and maybe burn the whole yard, maybe burn the house and the barn, spread to the field, blow into town and choke the sky with a sooty eclipse.

Josh Maday, Ashes to Undermine the Smell

Matchbook
The presidents oh man the scenario and the sun, but remain untagged.

Brian Baldi, Ideally Learnt French for Eavesdroppers

Memorious
Everything that happened underground was doctrine

Mary Biddinger, Population: 41,685

Mississippi Review Online
She lay on her bed with the phone up snug to her ear during this particular conversation and her room seemed smaller to her after he said this.

Myfanwy Collins, Wash, Dry, Fold

Necessary Fiction
We watched the orange streetlights come on, and sweated without knowing it.

Jensen Beach, Family
Rachel Yoder, Arizona’s Lonely
Sara Levine, Baby Love
Steven J. McDermott, When a Furnace Is All That Remains

Night Train Magazine
They’ve been writing on the walls with themselves.

Donora Hillard, From: Chorus from the Land of Grownups
William Walsh, Muse

No Tell Motel
Forget/in both directions from this moment.

Joanna Ruocco, When I Worked for Madonna

NOÖ Journal
Before the sky got low and touched the ground and the neighborhood got small and fragile and the storms came through and tore trees apart and threw them onto houses and garages and split cars in half and pulled away the swamp grass and cat-tails and roof shingles, and rope swings, we spent our days in play.

Mary Hamilton, You Wouldn’t Believe Me If I Told You, But Me and Theodore Built a Time Machine

The Northville Review
I liked being in my room, and I liked walking around outside looking for birds’ nests, fox holes, new growth in the spring.

Lydia Copeland, Pact

The Scrambler
Am I the only one in this who hopes it gets worse?

Leigh Stein, The Reckoning

Smokelong Quarterly
I built a bridge for strong and sturdy. I built a bridge and named it Doris.

Mary Hamilton, Me and Theodore Are Trapped in the Trunk of the Car with Rags in Our Mouths and Tape Around Our Wrists and Ankles, Please Let Us Out
Michael Czyzniejewski, Pregnant With Peanut Butter

Staccato Fiction
She also once told me she felt like she was drowning.

Cami Park, Glory

The Summerset Review
Butter flows slower than blood.

Kasandra Snow Duthie, Where the Glazed Girls Go

Terrain.org
My history of falls is unkind.

Pamela Uschuk, A Short History of Falling

Toasted Cheese
He kept them tethered with string and fed them regular doses of helium from a baby bottle.

Frank O’Connor, Foolish Creatures

Valparaiso Poetry Review
Their mouths are full./They have no wings.

Claudia Emerson, Ground Truth

Wigleaf
The sink was water-stained, the mirror missing a corner. I recognized myself in it right away.

Dave Housley, Pop Star Dead at 22
Elizabeth Ellen, Samuel L. Jackson Is Not a Good Name for a Rabbit
Jennifer Pieroni, Now, Right Now
Mary Miller, Aesthete
Sean Lovelace, A Sigh Is Just a Sigh

Call out

A writer, when he’s asked to discuss his craft, ought to get up and call out in a loud voice just the names of the writers he loves. I love Kafka, Flaubert, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Dostoevsky, Proust, O’Casey, Rilke, Lorca, Keats, Rimbaud, Burns, E. Brontë, Jane Austen, Henry James, Blake, Coleridge. I won’t name any living writers. I don’t think it’s right. —J. D. Salinger

Smokes

Vodpod videos no longer available.

Things That Used to Be Legal
Cami Park

Burning leaves
Sunday afternoons a giant cigar

Cigarette commercials
Animated packs dancing, singing of their flavor

Stalking
This hurt the most to lose
Bloated nights cushioning eggshell days
Everything underwater

Free Philip Glass

“I believe that when we are in the presence of interpreted music, we are watching the creative process as it happens. It is a very special moment. It’s something that, while scientists are looking deep into space, looking for the moment of creation – how can we do that in our ordinary lives? I think we do it when we look at sports, when we look at music, when we look at dance. It’s a moment when we can participate in that moment of creation. It’s a powerful, powerful moment.” –Philip Glass

free mp3s here

Dance, Dance Industrial Revolution II

Ryan Abegglen

Danger

All I’ve been wanting is sleep. I’m not tired, and still I want sleep. And no, television is not the same.

Mungo Millenium, Best of (+ bonus new image and link)

The last 6 months of 2009, anyway. It’s a young blog.

6/2009
Post-Civil War Re-enactment
Not Really*
It really is a lion

7/2009
The goddam regrets
How poets die

8/2009
Things to do on a plinth
Achy
Things like other things
Girl World

9/2009
Counterpoint
Some strange gravity
Stockings
Maybe crying

10/2009
We are in love
It’s nothing, nothing at all

11/2009
Lucia, Luis, and the Wolf
Easter Rabbit is here
Also, eggs

12/2009
I wanted to fuck a robot
I cried once when snow stopped falling
Somewhere graphite grey
A fastening

Reasons fall apart

I’ll sleep just like a match inside
Your paper lantern heart

Best blogs

Radish King
I have a hard green pear for lunch. It resembles your heart.

rollerfink
the story describes richie benaud’s face. how it has changed over the years. sunken in. how his eyes have evolved from tadpoles to frogs. eyes can be frogs, contends the story, and a recent photograph of richie benaud confirms the story’s assertion.