There once was a young woman, aged seventeen, named Cecilia, who lived in a fishing village. Her grandfather had been her caretaker for her whole life, but he was now growing old and weak.Read More
Fiction & Poetry
On a humid and hazy night, at about half-past eight, a week before Thanksgiving, Haley sat next to me as I jerkily drove the dozen minutes from her house to a downtown strip where a meager music venue was.Read More
Let us venture to see places yet unknown; We are little warriors to be, who may return to our homes.Read More
She knew that the men, the ones who's souls had been stolen, were coming. But there was no way for her to know what that ending would bring. There was her depth, captured: her amber eyes foresaw something: The fate that a mass mob would impose; a life onto which she would cling.Read More
My mind was in a lyrical appreciation of the textures: warm, smooth stones splashed by cool water; solemn, intense sun, in the broad cloudless sky heated the sand beneath my bottom.Read More
How guys are such brutes
And are shameless about their desires.
When my skin tans and freckles
And becomes pungent with sea salt and sweat.
Hold me close,
So I won't have to see
The variety of atrocities.
Friday nights of booze.
I'm nobody to the schmoozing loons.
I never noticed in the year I’ve known her, often taking strolls in the park, on one occasion sitting at the beach, that her hands were exceptionally delicate. They grasped the dog’s leash with simple grace. The truth is, I would have rather, with humility and modesty, held her hand, in some sort of display of affection, which I find stirring in her presence— that is, either in my thoughts, or in life. Instead, I only managed to comment on the characteristics of her hand and hold it for a brief moment. In the circumstances of which I continually find it impossible to initiate intimacy of any sort, I settled for these observationsRead More