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.
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
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
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,
Comatose (or You Don’t Know Where You Are)
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
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