Category: Fiction

Wednesday morning, 7:48. Fremont Avenue. The street is full. An old brown sedan crawls like a dying beetle over its surface. The motor sputters. It backfires while the car’s shadow paints the road beneath it with a thick, lingering
          My bedroom was narrow, barely seven feet across. It had a window overlooking the street. All the way up the street there were similar houses converted to apartments in a student ghetto. In a
          “The mosquito,” Uncle George once said, “is better off with a moose.”            What he meant was, better off with moose blood than human, because we lack what mosquitoes like.
          Tresses of the night sky hang over her face, obscuring her features. She is madness, and she calls the turbulent waves, forming a riptide beneath the surface. She is half-full, half-empty, this moon. Is
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura. -Dante   Canto I           Midway—or a little longer—upon the journey of our life, he found himself in a gloomy wood.  Too

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