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Names for a blackened stove
Hear it this evening, rusted lace fingers and remnants of dirty flame. It has a large mouth, though never eyes on that gaping face. Sings with empty room voices: oil and metal, dustrag fumes, wood polish shallows. Groan when the rain starts, red weeds itch behind the house. A voice…
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At the movies
Tissue paper face held over a match. Night dangles from rafters, perfume chemicals burn. Daylight burns like faces on the screen skin-soft, bleached and bloody. Picture this: grey background, rose buds flailing. Narrow angles abstract and brief as lips on neck. Later only rainy weather.
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Yesterday’s Coffee
“The first time I saw the house for itself—not as the house two doors down, but as the house that could be parent’s—was the estate sale. Here, the relics of a life.”
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Nass Dispatch: Rowing Camp Chronicles
A Nass editor abroad reflects on a decidedly unNass-like pastime.
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A History of Silence: Elision and Destruction in the New Mexican Landscape
“There’s power in not having to care. As Inez Guzmán remarks, the film Oppenheimer can leave New Mexico just as its subject did: apparently without a second thought. But there’s also power—more ambivalent, yes, but also more lasting—that comes with needing to pick up the pieces.”
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Telescoping Cavity
To telescope, we begin with 300 words, then slice the word count in half for each successive section. We stop when the numbers stop dividing evenly. This week, four Nass writers telescope the word “cavity.” Charlie Nuermberger (cn0260) CW: Suicide It’s really beautiful, under the gas station canopy lights, when snow falls, and…
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Cardboard, White Tears, and the Inevitability of the British: The Jungle at St. Ann’s Warehouse
A play that claims to portray the authentic refugee experience . . . for fifty-two dollars.
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Fun Fact: Rocky/Mathey Trivia is Downright Cutthroat
Tensions run high at the Wednesday-night event.
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Prufrock’s Letters
Mente mia, che presaga de’ tuoi damni, Al tempo lieto già pensosa e trista, Sí ‘ntentamente ne l’amata vista Requie cercavi de’ futuri afanni 1. Let us go now, til it be that all you and I can see is made the slightest bit unstable; along these fine rain-slickened streets run along these sticky,…
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Telescoping Fault
To telescope, we begin with 300 words, then slice the word count in half for each successive section. We stop when the numbers stop dividing evenly. This week, eight Nass writers telescope the word “fault.”