Jay hurried to the finishing area, glad it was getting warmer and that he didn’t need to freeze his buns off working outside. Over these last six months, he’d watched
At the end of July, the turnips were lush. They grew alongside the entrance to the plant, bright green fronds waving in the afternoon heat like feathers of a peacock’s
…won Flash Fiction Friday at The Portland Review.
After Adam and Eve got expelled from the garden, there was no more low-hanging fruit to pick from the Tree. Anyhow, there was no need to pick because they’d already
The city etched her face into a pie chart wedges of a nose, mouth, eyes shadowed, each an escapee from the big picture, a radioactive half-life not counting piano bars hidden beneath subways,
For the past thirty years I have drawn the same face on napkins and in the margins of notebooks. Why am I predisposed to the same doodle that reasserts itself