Fiction
The Bricks are Shrieking
Cal Jacobs sat in an uncomfortable rolling chair made of plastic and polyester, staring out the tenth floor window of his high-rise.
Wednesday
It’ll be a Wednesday. It’ll be cloudy outside. There will be fog creeping over the ravine and remnants of an early-morning rain still drifting
What is tomorrow?
Tomorrow is that glint in your best friends’ eye, When he proposes a daring plan. Tomorrow is that rainbow glinting in the sky, Reminding you
Godland: Sammie Jo
Sammie Jo don’t talk much. Her mother like to cut out her tongue any time she speaks up. A bone outta socket. As big as
Outwitting Mom’s Cable Company
The day after my mother’s funeral I called Comcast to cancel her cable TV account. A recorded message led me through a series of
Skirt
I. I see a video of women cycling in short dresses talking of how not to flash. They wide-angled their legs, pull the back of