And then, I’ll tell you




Tell me a story

Any story

Doesn’t matter

Who the hero is

Ageless woman

Bright red hair

Adorable dwarf

A dog named dog

If it takes place

In cairo new york

Augusta maine

an unnamed country

If there is a ménage a trois

Bald protagonist

Five children

Bird fish dog or man

All named otto

An older woman who calls herself marie real name quimetta

All sex ok In a story


Some people eat shrimp

Climb mountains love yoga

Some heroines are

Sedentary Vegetarians


My friend isola really her name

or is it she says she has a secret

she’ll tell me tonight at dinner

and then I’ll tell you.

Esther Cohen
Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me. I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.


  1. Waking up to one of your stories, in the place you created. is about as good as it gets.
    And there’s no war there. Keep ’em comin’


  2. A story: I used to know a guy with a horrible stutter. Today I know people with stutters: they speak and then stop and then try to continue, per… per… person who wanted a to know…. There’s something of a strain with that sort of stutter, you hold yourself back from filling in the word — it doesn’t help, anyway, they always insist on pushing it out themselves…. but that strain quickly passes, there is a warmth one feels at the stutterer’s success, but this guy’s stutter — his first name was Hartry, the only Hartry I ever knew or heard of — was horrible. Monstrous. It turned Hartry into a monster, wracked with a painful need to push the word out, as one vomits up some awful life form that has crawled inside us and needs a violent expectoration if one is to remain alive, his mouth would open one, and one saw, again, his horselike teeth and his purplish palate, his tongue, and above, his glasses and his wild blue eyes, desperate, and a horrible groan of a word half-formed, pushing itself out, an awful unwilling object. One wanted to run, for help, for horror… one could only stare, then, ooooo, it was out! Congratulations, Hartry, drinks around. But no time for drinks, here comes the next word, the next struggle, the next awful vomiting… not one word, said Hartry wordlessly, but a whole phrase, I have a whole phrase to give you, an idea, a thought, I have something to say… Ouch, so awful. This was in high school, and Hartry was call Har-Har Hartry, for awful reasons, for obvious reasons, for silly boy reasons… And I think he left school untimely… not sure about that. And I never saw or heard of him again. But he went on to become a very broadly respected modern philosopher, teacher, lecturer…

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