Originally published in Scribes magazine He grabs her arm when they leave the curb. Says crossing Highway 1 is dicey. “Art Festival time.” She knows that. She knows aficionados clog the neighborhood en route to the amphitheater. She knows that’s where they mold people into famous paintings. “Living pictures,” they call it. Isn’t the opposite …
Month: September 2024
Originally published on CC&D In the 40’s it took 10 minutes for men in coats to drill into housewives’ human bone like needles through thick wool to block sniveling and drive forbearance. Expose the brain like flattened soiled diapers to curb fretting and implant composure. Dump alcohol into the cavity, cracked eggs into a well …
Originally published in The Seraphic Review Blood on the tissue. Stomach tumbling to hard tile, anchored to expiration. I thought I was prepared, every acrobatic bathroom visit bracing body brain and guts. Til a speck of encroaching red spreads beyond itself inaudible insensible shrapnel cruel. In ricocheting glazed enclosures, in musty unkempt stalls, in tidy …
Originally published in Friday Flash Fiction She pushed a red pin through Sandakan. Once, they had both dreamed of seeing orangutans in the wild. She had made it happen. She had stood on fertile ground and watched them feast and frolic inside a breathing jungle. When it was time to leave, she had flown over …
Originally published in Friday Flash Fiction “I know he’s not real.” She nodded softly, guided two slumping shoulders down the hall and from under a frumpy bed produced a worn shoebox. His velvet hands removed wrinkled envelopes, and together they visited the time before. Her boy blushed at his barely legible hopes, gaped at his …
Originally published in 50 Give or Take The clasp clicked shut, two halves of precious metal meeting into an oval. Gold links hung inside her silky fingers. “A keepsake,” she insisted. I chuckled then studied the boy clutching my hand. Doe eyes smiled back. How old will he be when he sells the lie?
Originally published in Cerasus Magazine Salty spray smacks both bony knees. Shrieking in delight, four-year-old me retreats to my smiling dad, churning foam and sand as I muscle through. From shore, mom watches, perfect-posture regal. A pale hand shades her roving eyes. She’ll pounce if things get bad. White froth cups and tugs my browned …
Originally published in Book of Matches They would start in the den Small. Organized. Dad had said to take anything they might use so they built two boxes. Keep. Donate. The classics were no surprise In the classroom she had shone brightest and laughed. Most. Faulkner, Dante, the Russian and others she loved quickly filled …