Liz Axelrod

Poems, Essays, Reviews, Stories…


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I’m in this wonderful book!

http://threeroomspress.com/authors/have-a-nyc-new-york-short-stories/

Have a NYC 3: New York Short Stories

Edited by Peter Carlaftes & Kat Georges

Have A NYC 3: The Legend Continues

New York short stories like you’ve never seen before, featuring work by famed crime writer Lawrence Block, Serbian writer and translator Nina Zivancevic and writer/editor Liz Axelrod

Riveting tales of the underbelly of modern-day New York City hook-up with hilarious and poignant stories of love and loss in Have A NYC 3 an annual collection of engaging short stories. This edition, edited by Peter Carlaftes and Kat Georges, includes eighteen urban tales that merge familiar landscapes with a plethora of unusual characters, ready for a thrill–or a kill!–as they pass through the streets and homes of New York City’s ever-vibrant boroughs. Authors in this edtion include acclaimed crime writer Lawrence Block (Eight Million Ways to Die, A Walk Among the Tombstones, Hit Me), along with Liz Axelrod, Gil Fagiani, Bonny Finberg, Michael Gatlin, Kirpal Gordon, Ron Kolm, Peter Marra, J. Anthony Roman, Angela Sloan, Paul Sohar, Chera Thompson, Richard Vetere, Nina Zivancevic and Joanie Hieger Zosike, along with new stories by editors Peter Carlaftes and Kat Georges. The stories explore dark corners or bright passages, and each serves to redefine an aspect of The City, in thrilling and provocative ways.


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Why should you want to profit from my experiences?

I tossed them in the pyre to roast and boil. I don’t need to visit that place again. The pain and blisters do no good, so why shouldn’t I just face the wall and slam my head up on it. That might be safer than reliving life’s tribulations. Why do I write this side by side stuff anyway? To put my pain and pleasure on the page, to sway you to my politics of dancing and feeding birds who attack me for my bread? Would you like some bread? I enjoy garlic bread but then no one wants to talk to me and your black tee keeps sprouting chest hairs in my peripheral. Why do I keep powdering my look for when we meet again; clinging naked to my assumptions. And you walked right past me tonight without even saying hello. Oh wait. That was me. I left before you had the chance. I didn’t want your conversation interrupted by my presence, or my sweetness interrupted by your sour. That wall you leaned on turned to face me. I’m leaving now to move backwards, sideways, and return to this loop of never ending whatevers.

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