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
“I am a master of hallucination.” –Arthur Rimbaud I will not think about my retirement account. I will rest inside a concession stand of white gauze, sun hot. I will