From September, 2018

On The Cusp

Sometimes, when penning chatty love-notes to his girl, he would adopt witty little aliases: Dustin de Wynde, for example, or DeForest Primeval; something sufficiently far-fetched that she would know that it was really him, yet conferring a gratifying degree of obscurity against third-parties. He suspected (for books had made him shrewd) that small towns and…

When the Crows Spoke Only Once

They had been fighting for months. Little spats, grown from nothing. An inane comment. An undesirable gesture. And then silence for an hour … or two … or the rest of the day. They had to escape. They needed a vacation to recapture the happiness of earlier times. They would go to a small village…

Our Souls Refracted Through a Mesh

The world is filled with accidental pinhole cameras cracks in doorways holes in fences points where light is channeled, flipped, and abused to confuse our secrets with our proclamations. We live in these pictures illuminated by undetected images. Entire other lives developing, shining around our corners, the light I use to read your mood. A…

My Girl

He was looking for a girl in green. Actually, he was looking for a woman in green. A “girl” made her sound like a twelve-year-old, and Sam would be twenty-three in a week. But Jake called her “my girl” all the time, like The Temptations song. And he sang that song to her, too, whenever…