Regan was the type of pretty that wins pageants, but she didn’t know that. It’s hard to guess the things Regan knew for certain. Maybe she knew how many times a butterfly could flap its wings in a day.
Category: Fiction
The waiter was the last man to leave the restaurant. He was an unattractive man. Tall, slim, and vastly angular in his black and white uniform, he lived alone in an apartment now that his father had died. It
Successive proposals, one arched eyebrow, two arched eyebrows, slight catch on one side of his upper lip. Then it was gone. The brick remained, a brick wall, bits of hair embroidered over the top. That man at the next
The greased-back, blond strands hung like melting icicles dangling from an evergreen over almond colored eyes; this is what he looked like before they lowered him into the grave. His wife invited all the bill collectors to the funeral.
Sandra’s ember-specked face fixed itself on the diminishing fire. She twitched every time a coal would crack, but still moved her lawn chair closer to the waning flames. Her husband wobbled, unsteady from excessive whiskey, out from the shed’s
“I miss the rain,” he said. Him being from where I’m from in upstate New York, where gloom is like a comforter. And both of us here now, in Los Angeles, having missed each other by twelve years or
At the wedding of my longest standing friend I lost my voice. “Oh, how do you know Beau?” “He grew up two doors down.” Cough. Here you get a worried look, like the plague might come back in full
Strings of dollar bills hang from the ceiling as though they’d been put up to dry. Thousands and thousands of strings of dollar bills. Most of them crumpled into withering monetary lungs. They pack the small, dark, grey room
While listening to an author recite her latest poems, I become infatuated with her voice, with the magnetic vulnerability made lyric by her art… how the courage to reveal herself turns the words she speaks into a lure of
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