Fiction

Fiction

This is What You Do

I stood in my kitchen, hands slightly palsied as I poured myself a glass of water from the sink.

Poetry

Treading The Fire

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

Short Story

Dirt Road Dirtbags

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

Poetry

The Lives of Invisible People

In the coffee shop watching all the invisible people. The Chinese cellist reading aloud without a sound, the two men nearby trying to flirt inconspicuously,

Poetry

Marge Simpson

Knows the heart ache of canaries. Hummimg bird to spilt milk No friends same dress Pearls that rarely dance Five dollar rose bouquets Without a