Blood and Tide (Esmond Series)
. . . but the edges have eroded, bluntered and edgeless. Warfarin-thin. A swiftwater rush, . . . Esmond breathes.
Esmond at the Factory
Esmond has no need to see the abandoned starling nest to his right: he hears, echoing still, seven generations of them across the past nine years, jumbled warblings and desperate imitations of jays to hold off predators. . .
Everything but
A good day, he decided. A shift, a movement. He could not possibly predict now who he would become, only that watching his thumb press across that stray glop of Gillette and thus reveal a little more blue in the vanity countertop . . . exhilarated.
Match (1977)
A story I wrote in 1977 at age 14, but for whatever else fairly pointed as early allegory! In embarrassment and nostalgia, I offer it here. “The game had no time limit. It ended when it ended. Nothing else could be said.”
Esmond and Flesh
It is as if the body, the flesh of pubescence around him, the skin of slow-decay in adults, asserts itself.
Poetry for the Wall
A flash prose reverie on what we hang on to, what we obscure.
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