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	<title>Where I Find Myself</title>
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	<link>http://chrislacour.net</link>
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	<pubDate>Sat, 12 Jul 2008 01:41:22 +0000</pubDate>
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			<item>
		<title>Writers Block</title>
		<link>http://chrislacour.net/2008/07/11/writers-block/</link>
		<comments>http://chrislacour.net/2008/07/11/writers-block/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sat, 12 Jul 2008 01:41:22 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>chrislacour</dc:creator>
		
		<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Writers Block]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Writing]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://chrislacour.wordpress.com/?p=63</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I draw squares.
Boxes.
I should write words.
Sentences.
Instead,
four lines.
Four corners.
Over and over.
Four lines.
Four corners.
The metaphor?
They&#8217;re fucking squares.
Not words.
 
Copyright © July 2008 Chris la Cour
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			<media:title type="html">chrislacour</media:title>
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		<title>The End of Every Story</title>
		<link>http://chrislacour.net/2008/07/04/the-end-of-every-story/</link>
		<comments>http://chrislacour.net/2008/07/04/the-end-of-every-story/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 04 Jul 2008 04:41:38 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>chrislacour</dc:creator>
		
		<category><![CDATA[Creative Writing]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Short Stories]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[death]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Writing]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[drugs]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Overdose]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Plane crash]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Morbid]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Change of Mood]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Luck]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://chrislacour.wordpress.com/?p=57</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Here&#8217;s the thing that&#8217;ll make this story a little bit different. Right here, somewhere in the first few paragraphs, will be the end. The spoiler.
Ready?
Really, I&#8217;m going to skip the beginning and shoot straight on through to the end.
Okay, here.
By the end of this story, everyone in it will be dead.
There will be no one [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://chrislacour.net/2008/07/04/the-end-of-every-story/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
	
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			<media:title type="html">chrislacour</media:title>
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		<item>
		<title>Henry</title>
		<link>http://chrislacour.net/2008/06/02/henry/</link>
		<comments>http://chrislacour.net/2008/06/02/henry/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 02 Jun 2008 04:18:08 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>chrislacour</dc:creator>
		
		<category><![CDATA[Memoirs]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Hands]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Homeless]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Modesty]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[philadelphia]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[pride]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Writing]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://chrislacour.wordpress.com/?p=36</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I remember his hands mostly.
From the first time I met him through the next few times we stood together, smoking cigarettes on Chestnut Street, they were all I could look at.
Like the hands of a corpse, they looked carved.
His fingers were long and thin and held together by knuckles that looked ready to explode. Yellow [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://chrislacour.net/2008/06/02/henry/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
	
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			<media:title type="html">chrislacour</media:title>
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		<item>
		<title>Clara</title>
		<link>http://chrislacour.net/2008/05/19/clara/</link>
		<comments>http://chrislacour.net/2008/05/19/clara/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 19 May 2008 17:46:10 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>chrislacour</dc:creator>
		
		<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Short Stories]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Creative Writing]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Writing]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://chrislacour.wordpress.com/?p=33</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[ 
This isn&#8217;t yet where you&#8217;re supposed to apologize.
Not yet.
This is in her car.
The two of us.
And I&#8217;m telling her, it&#8217;s ok, people do this kind of thing all the time.
She&#8217;s stopped talking.
Stopped apologizing.
But I still hear her.
She&#8217;s spinning those words through her head.
Around and around.
I&#8217;m sorry, I&#8217;m sorry, I&#8217;m sorry.
This is our second time meeting [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://chrislacour.net/2008/05/19/clara/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
	
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			<media:title type="html">chrislacour</media:title>
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		<title>Fixer Upper</title>
		<link>http://chrislacour.net/2008/05/12/fixer-upper/</link>
		<comments>http://chrislacour.net/2008/05/12/fixer-upper/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 13 May 2008 02:23:44 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>chrislacour</dc:creator>
		
		<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Short Stories]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Creative Writing]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Fixer Upper]]></category>

		<category><![CDATA[Writing]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://chrislacour.wordpress.com/?p=31</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[ 
The splinter&#8217;s been in his hand for three days. Under the skin, it&#8217;s black, stained with old dried blood. The area around this little nuisance is red, swollen and tender. It&#8217;s infected.
 
This little foreign object, this sliver of wood, this dagger, is stuck somewhere in the middle of the web that stretches from his thumb [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://chrislacour.net/2008/05/12/fixer-upper/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
	
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