Posts
Endless Spoonful
We’re having lunch at the faux restaurant. My mom is eating her fish at a glacial pace, and I’ve moved…
Sea Bugs
A shrimp’s heart is in its head. You used to say your heart was in your stomach when you couldn’t…
Ways of Karst
The hole drinks the grass, the leaves, the twigs, and our favorite park bench. Insatiable. Thirsting. It then drinks the…
In The Closet
When you start needing a place to scream, you try most of the rooms in the house. You start with…
Picking Up Stones
Two-lane rural route to the boatyard, boondocks enough for hoedowns, cross-burnings, not that I knew much about either, except they…
Elegantly Exploring the Nonlinear: An interview with Sheila O’Connor
“There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this,” a line from W.H. Auden’s “Twelve Songs, VIII” came…
Giving Up
My sister turns her key in the lock and pushes. The door moves a handbreadth. Mum croaks from the living…
Dirty Shirley
They say she’ll do anything for a tenner. She’s fourteen. She lives in the trailer park across from the river.…
Attaboy Louis
Louis liked the name: Prospect Cemetery. As if its prescient eighteenth-century builders had known that one day college boys would…
It’s Still There
Maybe I was twenty-one or so, somewhere around there, young anyway, and I don’t remember much about where this all…
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