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Deathexpand_moreThe pillow into which her face was turned muffled her voice.
I didn’t trust her. Relationships like ours aren’t built on trust.
Children are never old enough to understand their parents’ affairs.
The five notes, slowly, over & over, and with some light intent.
Why do girls want to cheerlead? Don’t they know it objectifies women?
Sleepy and pensive, July succumbed to the day’s isolating heat.
Think of the fish whose stripes appear only on cooking through. Fold each thought: the highway stop where toilet paper is piled.
This body is all I have, I say. Some days it is still not enough.
I have given everything at the wrong time, to the wrong people.
When I dream of lovers, I rarely see faces. It’s better if we never touch.
He is not a man, but an empty shell, a creature who laughs to stop the shame.
I can’t talk yet. But I know things. I will tell you all this later when I can.
I could not tell what visions were vanishing in the dying slave.
Like a ghost, he appeared at the entrance of his hermitage.
Subtract for the cigarettes, the bourbon, the sleepless nights.
The dead children were wheeled away, covered with white sheets.
The man protested, I didn’t do anything. He needed the job. I only kissed her.
How’s everything? It’s been forever! Things with me are pretty good.
My father stood up, unable to choose which one of us to kill first.
The sunrise does not blaze fiercely but spreads in a gentle flush.
We pried the last of the pallid squid from their crevices and ate them.
When his father was out cold he tied him up, roping his arms to his sides.
The author reads her story, a finalist in the Winter 2013 Story Contest.
After the child died they mourned oddly. She wanted another.
Find a hair in the rose bush, wrap it around a thorn until that thorn is soft.
Song where a house becomes a dandelion in a puff of savage wind.
We loaded the packs and started down, into the bluing of dusk.
Three fingers had been cut from her right hand, two from her left.
On her wedding day Ellen accidently locked herself inside the pantry.
Death is a home unseen by the side of the road, the rifle barrel aimed.
