Fiction
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
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
Pins
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,
Social (Media) Distortion
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
This is What You Do
I stood in my kitchen, hands slightly palsied as I poured myself a glass of water from the sink.
After the Earthquake
At first, the dreams were jagged and bewildering, like migraine lightning or a Dali canvas.