This is from my novel-in-progress, Pulp Into Paper. Brenda Shawn trained her flashlight on the ground and landed in the water on something soft and squishy. She shook her boot
Down the stairs of my condominium and across Campus Drive to Leona Canyon Open Space Preserve. In April and May, I canter past an expanse of wild radish and California
An ancient monk wears heavy wooden prayer beads looped about his neck, koa or woodrose. White-robed, he is sworn to protect local villagers from demons. More than a few– a snow queen, and
thistle stalks with silvery thorns not yet turned iron in the summer heat the explosion of a buckeye’s start poppies close up after hours helicopters go on a spree a robin squats in
Ellipticals, treadmills, exercise bikes, pick my way through a forest of equipment gauge how close or far I wish to be from monitors displaying talk shows, cooking programs, sports, news,
This winter I drove across country. Speed limits on these super highways are 75 miles per hour. Along the shoulder, highways are littered with shreds of big rig tires, blow-outs