Short Fiction and Poetry

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

‘See you down there then - the old stepping stones?’ You jerk your chin in that direction, rough stubble looking patchy and immature. [...]

Claire knew that she should have been on the subway heading home hours ago. Darleen, the manager of the group home where she lived [...]

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 [...]