Tag Archives: Monk Eastman

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What You Aren’t Most

In the sepia twilight, shuffling past crude signs advertising sex in every flavor but love, he came to her. She helped him off with his sweat-soaked shirt, filthy slacks, and mud-caked boots; lay him on the mattress, and climbed atop. “The factory is closing,” he

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Beneath the red neon halo of promise, Elmer rubbed his hands together at the prospect of murder. “He ain’t comin”, Gantry said. “Shut up,” Elmer snapped. “He’s comin’. Every morning, he shows up. Feeds the bums before the early morning rush.” “‘Early morning rush’?” Gantry

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The Empty Swing

Glass of water stared at him from the kitchen table. Baruch’s reflection wrapped its surface, a collection of unhealthy pale features buried in a sprawling black beard. One hand stroked his beard, while his hands traced the tefillin nervously under the table. Occasionally, he made