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Click on the links below to enjoy the latest online fiction and nonfiction, fresh out of the old Barrelhouse.

Go Fish
by Mary Miller

"You're wearing Coco Chanel," he says to the girl at the bar. She was watching him; they all watch him. The pills he takes makes this pleasant, this observation, like he's a scuba diver and they're a school of fish.
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There's This Band: Band #1
by Michael T. Fournier

They harbor a special brand of dorkitude: they're way into the Civil War. It all starts as a joke one beer-soaked evening at a bar. Why not start a band with a finite lifespan -- one that can double as an art project -- and carry it out, start to finish?
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The Tao of Concrete
by Adam Kapel

I was in the backyard talking to my cat the other day. He's good for that because although he does judge and belittle you, he does it with silence and class. I was telling him that I needed a place to put my beer. Well, to be more specific, I needed a place to put my beer when I was grilling. For that matter, I actually needed a place to put my grill, I declared. The cat responded by licking himself. You're right, I thought, I do need a patio. And that was all it took.
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The Only Child
by Erin Pringle

Father takes us to work because baby-sitter won't play with us anymore. She never liked our games. He says, Don't disturb me and when I'm done we'll have ice cream.
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by Don Ball, Jr.

The Don's verse was sublime, and he enjoyed reciting a few lines from "Ode to a Blown Job" as he strangled one of his former bodyguards to death. He thought it apropos, as the bodyguard had been contracted to kill the Don, but had been found out instead. A blown job indeed.
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Barrelhousing with Q and Not U's John Davis

Q and Not U played together for seven years before calling it quits earlier this month. Hey -- don't blame us, we didn't know either. But that didn't stop us from sitting down with Q and Not U drummer John Davis, who chatted with us about the band’s recent tour supporting Interpol, their evolution as a group, and his moonlighting gig as a DJ.
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Diary of a Wrathful God
by Dave Housley

"Who the hell died and made you God?" Jimbo said. He dropped the pizza on the table, next to the legal documents and Dershowitz's briefcase.

"Technically," Dershowitz said, "Jesus Christ of Nazareth. Although," he pointed to where it said Undersigned and wiggled his fingers at me, "some might argue that on the third day he rose again, sits at the right hand of the father, yadda yadda yadda."

I signed the contract.
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Uneasy Rider
by Tom McAllister

Turn that radio up, crank the bass. Oh, hell, crank the treble too; how else do you expect to fully experience Steve Perry's vocals on Separate Ways or the legendary cowbell of Don't Fear the Reaper? If you're going to be imprisoned in this car for the next thousand miles, you'd better be able to enjoy yourself: sing along with that radio, loudly and proudly, like a drunken sorority girl on karaoke night. This is no magic carpet ride, but fantasy will set you free as you weave through traffic, doing your part to maintain the unbelievably delicate balance between disastrous crashes and the freedom of speeding toward home.
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Surviving Death
by Tom Whalen

The tape started out with a man in a green suit surrounded by mermaids telling me that my life was more important than my wife and dog thought it was, and if I happened to die suddenly I'd have to fend for myself in the afterlife, so I'd best forget about help from those dear to me.
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In the Zone
by Joe Killiany

January 1st is the perfect day for TV marathons. I decided that five weeks ago while lying on my couch flipping through cable looking for something to occupy my time. So, with this in mind and a hangover in tow, I turned to the 36-hour Twilight Zone marathon thoughtfully provided by the Sc-Fi Channel.
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In These United States: How We Celebrated Black History Month
by Mark Watson

Fox News Network: Hannity and Colmes roundtable discussion – "Taking the Pulse of Modern African American Thought" – with special guests Alan Keyes, Armstrong Williams and Michael Powell.
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David Bowie Eyes
by Jessica Marks

When I wake up, whether or not I have the dream, I stare at my Ziggy Stardust poster and masturbate. It's a great pick-me-up in the morning. I feel refreshed. No real man could ever live up to such a satisfying standard.
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Queer Studies: Six New Texts
by Matt Williamson

Trashed on Stroh's and Rossi Merlot at the annual White House Staff Picnic and Barbecue, the President (Jeff Daniels) and his Secretary of State (Fred Thompson) make a $50,000 wager: can queers hack it in the military?
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The Man (Formerly) with the Plan

Barrelhousing with Travis Morrison, the former frontman for the Dismemberment Plan, about the leap from working in a band to solo activity and the intricate art of the cover song.
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Free Martha
by Laura Taylor Lambros

Los Angeles and I are fighting. We've reached that point in our relationship where the initial attraction has worn off and reality has set in.
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Flashes of the Muse
by Barry Spacks

On Fifth Avenue in a mid-day crowd, he curves around a truck jutting out into the intersection, held at a red light. She approaches the other way, carrying a hat box.
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Can This Man Save Rock? Barrelhousing with John Richards

We barrelhouse around the old barrelhouse with John Richards, KEXP morning host extraordinaire and the man who just might save rock and roll.
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The Bard Crichton
by Dan Pope

Consisting of random statements published about Michael Crichton and William Shakespeare in which both parties are referred to as "Crichton."
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Enjoy Enhanced Energy
by Caroline Raisler

You can be freed from hunger much of the day, but can you be freed from memories? He used to turn to you at night -- hands carbohydrates, tongue sugar -- and eat until you were pleasantly satisfied and full.
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Oxen Cry
by Darby Larson

The strange thing about the world Ox lived in was that every year on a particular day, everyone would cry for an unpredictable length of time, for an unpredictable reason. Scientists couldn't explain it. It was deemed Crying Day.
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Take It, Immortality, It's Yours, Dude
Aaron Pease on "Troy"

Dear Reader, I confess unto you, that I stood among those with stones in their hands, eager to cast them upon the golden locks of Brad Pitt. But Christ's words cut straight to my heart, and seeing their truth, I was humiliated and dropped the stone, and ran home with ears burning. Plus I had to pee.
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Sex and Pills: A Love Story
by Carrie Hill Wilner

It's not like I wanted to think about sex more often. My libido was the only thing about me that had always been healthy. Well, more like intrusive than healthy.
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GrudgeMatch: The O.C. versus Beverly Hills 90210
An essential debate between Mike Ingram and Mike Ingram

Any debate about The OC must begin with the show's most underrated actors: Peter Gallagher's eyebrows. One moment sullen, the next pensive, then suddenly exuberant, they strut and fret across the stage like twin Shakespearean players, stealing nearly every scene.
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The Tragedy of Karl Malone
by Claire Zulkey

Karl Malone was sad. He sat in the rental facility where he now was forced to live, and stretched his very long legs out and rested them on a cardboard box. Predictably, it collapsed. There might as well have been a tiny personal cloudburst hovering over his head.
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Smooth Operator
by Aaron Pease

There stands Dean Martin: his hair newly pompadoured, suit pressed, pants cuffed, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he rests his elbow and a martini on a crate backstage at the Sands. His eyes are humorously vacant as he chats up two girls just off the bus from the Midwest. They are young and want to dance. They know enough not to know too much, and that is the way he likes them.
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by Joe Killiany

“Can I join you?” he asked.

It caught me off guard. In the year I'd eaten there, no one had ever asked to sit with me. I eyed the army of empty tables around us, their surfaces so clean they gleamed like blacktop in the desert sun. Why did he want to share? I tried to come up with a valid excuse to turn him down. But, with only a second to think, everything I thought of seemed rude or paranoid.

“Don't worry,” he said reading the suspicion in my face. “I don't talk much.”
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Ryan Seacrest is Famous
by Dave Housley

Burns wakes up with the feeling that something is wrong. He can feel it in his...not in his gut, somewhere deeper than that, more primal. He can feel it in his balls. He sits straight up. How many days now? A week, at least. His wife is sleeping comfortably. Early dawn light suffuses the room. What is it, he wonders, a bad dream? Deja vu? And then it hits him again, like 900 volts shot straight into his testicles, it snakes into his gut and up his spine until it fills his head like a migraine. Ryan Seacrest is famous; Burns is not.
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