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.”
Poetry for the Wall
A flash prose reverie on what we hang on to, what we obscure.
Not What I Meant
Flash fiction, when it’s hard to get past.
Predictive Text
Right now I’d rather be stupid and alive than, well, let me talk this through. But if this somehow gets to you today, it’s it’s Tuesday then people then get people up here, OK? I mean right now. But.
Recent Comments