Short Story
Black Shrunken Blemish
When Frances had to speak publicly, her legs shook. As a kid, she had grown faster up than she had out and she had felt
When Frances had to speak publicly, her legs shook. As a kid, she had grown faster up than she had out and she had felt
*synth beats* bright plastic blue screen green screen *auto-tune screams* chunky glasses tuned-in apathy *boy band* drive fast die young pretty corpse *twangy guitar*
While he sleeps I catalogue his body. When he is awake I keep my distance. While he dreams I touch and map in a
My first real breath of air smells of pine and woodsmoke. It comes to me on a cool breeze, mid-afternoon, a sunny day that
A dream of a 1920s quasi-candid shot of Debby Harry, mingling graciously among a grandiose Studio 54 scene. Spray the lens of my life with
___The featured image accompanying this piece, entitled ‘Spectrum’, has been used with the permission of artist, Robert Alan, a mixed media artist from New York
he swears that the desert is laughing, mocking him with the distant wail of the wind, the hoot of an owl. each spray of dry
There were times when it seemed like all the beauty was sucked out of my life. This was one of them. It was cold and
You wake up. Are you dead? You don’t know where you are. Look around. There is a wide dirt road framed by tall, dark pine
Carl didn’t know the code. The timer was ticking, the bomb was going to blow, but he had no idea how to shut the thing
It was Saturday. And I love Saturdays. My friend Libby’s dad takes her to church on Saturdays. And Polly’s dad takes her to museums. And
I talk to myself. I have to. No one else will listen. No one else understands. Even if they did, I wouldn’t dare expose
Crying, I recall my father shudders, remembering tall thin men at the foot of the bed apparitions at night, faceless heads like pins, mostly arms,
I have not always had my medication to protect me from epilepsy, to keep my hand steady while I handled boiling grease and kitchen
She was suspicious that everyone in the room was melting. The man sitting at the coffee table directly in her line of sight was
I’d rather be a collapsed flower drenched in rainwater; succumbed to the well where wishes weld winning whims. though not alone as the barren heart
maybe beauty will remain an abstract dirge; a mantra to be ruminated over like a submerged leek becoming tender in warm water. as it seems
The first art Was not art, Rather, a color line shot through the dark, No more expression Than a plea for explanation. The grandest monuments
I pursued him with a single minded determination that had been notably lacking in my previous endeavours. I wanted Richard to be mine like I
How do I write with these frantic fingers Left index plugs tearing right aorta Right hand holds closed ripping left ventricle I am hopelessly, entirely
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