Short Fiction and Poetry

A crunchy peach separates perfectly. No stringy pulp is left in the craggy pit. [...]

As tear-away tongues lash out From black cats that spew and spout A witch-hat is like the top of a house With cobwebs and a quiet mouse [...]

Let’s just say that nothing matters within the matter and that the chokehold of life is really a cloud that never knows [...]

Spirits of the forest come dance with me come swirl and twirl in your bleached bark robes I see you there [...]

waded near the shore tides flush with our hips beads of salt water citrine on your skin [...]

Untimely         Accidentally putting the wrong coat on, Only realising by the gloves, Feeling she was luckier. Mittens on strings,...

You are sitting alone, somewhere, tuning in to the primary auditory cortex decoding the context of vibrational oscillations [...]

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I always think of us as something else, geraniums  thriving amid the Dust Bowl, glimpses of hope to weary travelers having lost it all.[...]

In the attic of my mind, I found a locked drawer— beneath layers of dust-laced grief, it pulsed faintly, as if waiting to be opened [...]

I'll be forsaken like long buried hordes Fading to dust in their derelict graves To burden the living, a bothersome corpse [...]

No one predicted what took place since the saboteur's mentally-anguished mission didn’t match the mellow aura circling them. [...]

Every Sunday I walk to church, about a mile away and back again, of course. When I leave the house my parents are still asleep [...]

She pulled back the blinds, Looked to the street below. He was there, staring up, [...]

dog as in                                              animal. as in thing with the capacity to hurt. good only when rewarded [...]

She finds me on the precipice of sleep— her icy fingers grip my mind and melt it into pools of nightmares and try to drown me in them. [...]

Out of the warmth and into the night where most would feel only fright I stroll my way [...]

Eight bars around the block—soon to be nine Abandoned Saturday morning—this street of mine [...]

An Edison bulb is nostalgia, swinging like a disjointed eyeball. Slubbed grease toes, maintenance of viper pronged gastrointestinal gears. [...]

The water moved so fast as it hurled itself  over the upper falls. The rapids were of which I had never seen.  The majestic power [...]