Home, Alone
Tucked into the soft cushions of the couch, I look out through the branches of the Christmas tree at the front lawn.
Stories Poems Essays
Houston
We drift between our areola outlined pupils expanding with flickers of artificial sunshine in Third Ward where the dead are buried in gun cartridges…
Dreamers Magazine Issue 2
I’m pleased to announce the release of Issue 2 of the Dreamers Magazine. In this issue you’ll find an exclusive interview with Steven Heighton…
The Burning Times
Adele had known the man whose body was found nestled among the bags of expired bread behind the 7-11. His name had been…
Pieces of You
“I am so broken,” you say. Raising my head, I am struck by this new look in your eyes. Mesmerized, I don’t even wonder as…
Writing is Dangerous
Writing is dangerous. It’s a broken bone mended wrong. A healing scab you pick until it bleeds. It opens wounds and forgets how to close them. Instead, leaves it gaping.
This Is What Death Does
That time you are eight, and you trip crossing the road, and almost get hit by the oncoming traffic. Your mother yells at you, and you hear the animal in her voice…
“Early Blossoms” and “Ontario Thaw”
Alone on a mesa, a pink crabapple tree embraces the wind, its branches reaching up and out like a menorah, its petite blossoms a pointillist image…
Vertical Girl
My outdoorsy boyfriend lived for the feeling of shoving his feet into one-size- too-small rock climber shoes and dangling off the sides of cliffs.