Fiction

Poetry

Lascaux is Burning

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

Short Story

The Code

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

Poetry

The Day of Our Meeting

I dreamed of the day, In the dead of winter, A dreary day, When I’d step off the train And see you there- The day

Poetry

Kierston

Meet me in the mountains Of Oregon (Washington’s been having too many fires). It won’t be hard to find me- Just look for the earthship,

Short Story

You Look Just Like Your Sister

  The red door to my home opened and the fresh smell of warm turkey and cranberry sauce collided with my senses the way Sticky