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		<title>Possession</title>
		<link>http://burningword.com/archives/2877</link>
		<comments>http://burningword.com/archives/2877#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 05 Oct 2008 17:57:56 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[short story]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Beams of hazy sunlight stroked Christopher's skin as he took his usual place at the window. The gently rustling drapes, a melancholy shade of mauve, fingered his thighs and calves carelessly like an inattentive lover. Peering out over the newly awakened city, Christopher inhaled the fragrance peculiar to a late spring morning in Vancouver. A lush, green aroma rich with the pungency of Japanese blossoms and lilac bushes clung to the air. Christopher closed his eyes, timidly inviting the quiet of the early day to wash over his nakedness.]]></description>
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		<title>Discretion Assured</title>
		<link>http://burningword.com/archives/2856</link>
		<comments>http://burningword.com/archives/2856#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 06 Jun 2008 00:40:35 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[guest author]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[        He’s a scarecrow set against the blackness of my backyard, a lanky figure trapped inside the small square of yellow emanating from the porch light. His scarecrow mouth puckers in a guilty little grin. Time for the awkward goodbye.

	A mass of tousled, honey-colored hair hangs loosely around his face. It’s stuck to his forehead in places, clinging to the moistness of his skin - a product of our romp. He never takes a shower or stays the night. To do so would cross that unspoken, invisible boundary.

	 I hope she smells me on him.

]]></description>
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		<title>Michael Lee Johnson</title>
		<link>http://burningword.com/archives/2852</link>
		<comments>http://burningword.com/archives/2852#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 30 May 2008 00:07:51 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[guest author]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[poetry]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Bio:  Michael Lee Johnson is a poet, and freelance writer, Itasca, Illinois author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom, http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7.  He has also published two chapbooks of poetry.  He has been published in USA, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Scotland, Turkey, Fuji, Nigeria, Algeria, Africa, India, United Kingdom, Republic of Sierra Leone, Nepal, Thailand, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia and Poland, internet radio.  He is also publisher and editor of four poetry, flash fiction sites--all presently open for submission:
]]></description>
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		<title>The Drop</title>
		<link>http://burningword.com/archives/2842</link>
		<comments>http://burningword.com/archives/2842#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 09 May 2008 00:17:49 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[guest author]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[short story]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[The man stood waiting with his back to the desk.
It was dim in the room. Pale light struggling through the small barred window fell onto the tiled walls and floor. The shelf opposite the desk was stacked with dressings, rolled bandages and a large, rust-coloured bottle of iodine, to disinfect caning wounds. 
I tried to swallow. Bile pooled at the back of my tongue but my throat was too dry to get rid of it. 
]]></description>
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		<title>Address to the Greenville Senior Women’s Club 35th Annual Pedigreed Dog Show</title>
		<link>http://burningword.com/archives/2828</link>
		<comments>http://burningword.com/archives/2828#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 21 Mar 2008 05:14:41 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[short story]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Address to the Greenville Senior Women’s Club 35th Annual Pedigreed Dog Show by the mystery writer H.L. Lemontre

It’s quite an honor to be speaking today as both a guest and a participant.  I am asked to speak at a lot of dog shows by fans of my mystery series, but rarely do I get the chance to speak in my own hometown, and even more rarely do I get to speak at a show where my own dog is also a contender.  Perhaps you’ll indulge an old woman if I tell you a bit about how I came to write the [i]Fluffems[/i] series.

]]></description>
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		<title>audie and martin</title>
		<link>http://burningword.com/archives/150</link>
		<comments>http://burningword.com/archives/150#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 20 Jul 2006 04:30:27 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[michael w. giberson]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[the night before martin luther king 
was gunned down in memphis 
he came screaming 
out of a dream.

the instant outside roanoke 
that his plane smacked a mountain 
was the first time since holtzwihr 
that audie murphy wasn't afraid.

audie and martin met in heaven and 
walked Paradise apart 
from listening angels, 
the ears of God. 

what they whispered
to each other
was not put down 
into the book of ages... 

they swapped medals, 
and their laughter echoed 
through heaven and earth, 
to hell and back.]]></description>
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		<title>First Portrait of Maria, in the Style of Dali</title>
		<link>http://burningword.com/archives/1028</link>
		<comments>http://burningword.com/archives/1028#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 18 Jul 2006 00:04:14 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[john sweet]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[poetry]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[You in this sepia-toned photograph, 
with your arms wide open in greeting, 
with your hands held up in surrender.

Edge of highway, corner of house, 
hint of something better. A body of water, 
maybe, or the back of someone else's 
head.

A gun pulled from inside the
killer's heart, and he says [i]Mr. Lennon[/i],
then smiles, then pulls the trigger.

No.

I've gotten ahead of myself here.

I'm ten years old and in a boat with
my father and two of his friends, and the 
engine has died. The tide is going out, 
and the only sound is the pull of the 
ocean.

The only heat is the ]]></description>
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		<item>
		<title>a small dog, bleeding</title>
		<link>http://burningword.com/archives/1027</link>
		<comments>http://burningword.com/archives/1027#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 17 Jul 2006 23:56:23 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[john sweet]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[poetry]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[it happens this way sometimes,
where the children die from the poison that
seeps up from underground

you vote for one person or the other, 
and the children die, and it's not war but 
business, and both words are actually just 
different ways of saying [i]profit[/i]

listen

new computers will be given to 
the schools as gifts

the sharpened teeth of priests will snap 
the bones of young boys in two

what you need to believe in are
rabid dogs
speaking w/ the voices of humans

what we do is use the word [i]political[/i] 
to describe what we don't want to 
talk about and then, of course, ]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>1</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>A Designated Paranormal Landing</title>
		<link>http://burningword.com/archives/1016</link>
		<comments>http://burningword.com/archives/1016#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 21 Jun 2006 16:47:44 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[benjamin rush miller]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[fiction]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[10,...9,...wait.
...a designated paranormal landing.

sulking to a greater distant hips up to her chin she's in she's not the same she's not in the same person lost all perspective simmering over an unfoiling iodine draining coffin. 

soldiers out back in sheep's clothing asking for a second politely ignorant attaching.

I just plain paper thin slow down word.

first which does it really matter not one more minute scatters an obvious I'll skip, the aching for your mother read well. 

where was I was dreaming cloaked tenuous hovering wait I'm getting something in there it is again no not yet there it's coming in oh it has unsoundless mind awake now or think. ]]></description>
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		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Grandma Scott&#8217;s Funeral</title>
		<link>http://burningword.com/archives/908</link>
		<comments>http://burningword.com/archives/908#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 12 Sep 2005 23:03:09 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[jack swenson]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[non-fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[short story]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Everybody called her Grandma Scott, but Eliza Scott (nee Lingstad) was nobody's grandmother.  The Scotts didn't have children.  Eliza was the eldest of three sisters, and she treated her younger siblings' offspring with grandmotherly affection.  My mother fondly recalled spending several weeks each year at the Scott farm helping to tend and feed the animals and taking baskets of food and water to the fields for the threshing crews at harvest time.  She and her older sister Nora helped Grandma Scott make the sandwiches for the noon meal for the workers.  And every morning she and Nora were dispatched to the barn to search for eggs deposited in secret places by the Scott's brood of laying hens.  My mother said there was nothing like having fresh eggs for breakfast.   Eliza's sugar cookies, as big as dinner plates, were a special treat as well.]]></description>
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