Writing

Last Dance

Alone on a sidewalk, a young girl dances slowly through the silent snowfall.

The Slow Rise of Foreign Bodies

A year after the explosion, the shell fragments pushing through Hobson’s skin are slow torture.

In the Closet with Carrie

We were pressed against the back wall behind a tangle of dresses and hangers, the Boone’s Farm in our stomachs rising against the reek of moth balls.

Beetle in her Pocket

“I’m going to be an entomologist,” Isabelle says. Her dress doesn’t have a pocket, or she’d have brought one of her pets. Her hands feel empty.

Waiting for the Trustafarian Migration

Trees creak in the steady wind rushing off the foothills.

Trustafarians dash from coffee shop couches into the streets to spin like bearded dust devils, worshipping the wind. They call the winds chinooks, just like the locals, not that they’ve met many of those. Rare birds, those locals.

Thing is, Iv’e Changed

As the clock struck midnight, ushering in my fiftieth birthday, . . .

Dwindling Topographies

In a collapsed hall, an echoing crunch truncates panicked screaming. Later, a wrinkled sheet of parchment skips corner over corner across the heaving stones of an empty plaza, catching on a clattering stand of dry stalks rising from a russet mound that was once a fighting machine. The bones of its soldiers were scavenged long […]