Short Fiction and Poetry

Blood and bone, heat and cars. And the dead are after me. Bonnie and Clyde, the Barrow Gang- so young, no glamour, just hard-scrabble [...]

As i lay on a nimbus cloud A cumulous dream had I An enchanted novella Authored by my ego And starring my id [...]

The bus rolls on through the quiet of the night, Its tires humming an endless hymn, a sound Of white noise that coaxes us to sleep [...]

This night is tedious. I turn the pages of a book, but quit after a brief look. [...]

I know the myriad ways a lover loves As once a young poet wrote, counting the ways[..] I know the intensity of a love that is more than love

When I am gone, come sit by my grave And bring along your memories A gift of days, water-colored and soft as rain, [...]

Halfway between one corner and the next, down steps strewn with twisted paper, greasy twine, “going out of business, everything must go[...]

It’s a voice only I understand and then not always. It isn’t the voice that you recognize as mine over the phone [...]

An insidious intent tells our inner selves Of sacrifice and solitude, suspense and sacrilege, Of sorrows and souls' starvation [...]

Disturbing.  Is there someone there? What rides upon night’s lonely air through frost and fog?  A distant sound at time of night when [...]

A faded rain-covered photograph leaking all color and pigment… A vivid moment, immersed in love and rapture, nostalgia [...]

This instrument I cannot tune between your ribs. Inside these shadowlands of birch and pine, your own svelte tongue ripe with sunlight.[...]

There is something in my mind holding me back from what I wish to achieve, it is simply one desire after another – another goal [...]

I have seen both sides; Now, I cannot close my Eyes amid this freezing Cold kiss of Death [...]

I remember losing the horizon and everything above it. It doesn’t matter, you’d said, distracted, fixing the plate with silvered salts[...]

When I return from my year abroad  you suggest we take a stroll  along the Isis river behind Christ Church meadows [...]

The night is a clock without any face, as it spins in cosmic cacophony. [...]

I would hold you closely in the confines of a nightmare We drift towards hollowness not a mention of empty pools of light [...]

A frayed postman wearing a threadbare flat cap delivers a letter you posted seven years ago. [...]

beyond the forest a field appears, but first you walk though a path that is framed on the sides by tall sumac red [...]