There is something about school children running through dead leaves, weaving circles between trees and each other. So much growing and so much leaving things behind. They have no idea how quickly it will be gone, this rush of every minute being new. They are not tired. They do not…
heirloom
spilled pearls patter on the floor the broken strand which was once whole trails from between her childish fingers and the burn of shame crawls up her throat fans out on her cheeks. shall she drop on desperate knees and flail her arms like one desperate and drowning pulling the…
The Mind and the Snooze Bar
The pounding bright, white light of my laptop screen screams at me: "Something! Anything!" It mocks me: "Just write words. You remember words , right?" It antagonizes me: "Someone else is out there right now, licking the envelope of their submittal to the publisher. And you're eating string cheese and watching…
A Teeming Brain
Tonight, my grandmother is sleeping in a hospital bed in a retirement complex where she has lived for many years. She barely knows the names and faces of her children. Her memories have been scrambled so that she cannot tell yesterday from her wedding day. And every once in a…
Diagnosing Windmills
Human nature is puzzling. I am no psychologist, though I am intrigued by the plausibility of drawing connections between current behavior and past events. On occasion, I know that this habit of mine is nothing more than a defense mechanism. Someone I know and care about screws up, and I…
Leave the Lady-Face in the Locker Room
How can I tell you what the hard leather felt like in my hands? It was something I lived. Sucking the cold air deep into myself, holding it inside until it was warm, watching the exhale hang before my face. And then the doors creaking open. That hollow sound of…
Fight or Flight - The Dance of the Writer
While it is sometimes true that the mind of an author is like a garden, constantly sprouting and nurturing new ideas, blossoming and brimming with possibilities, this is not always the case. Other times, a different type of creation takes place. An idea bubbles in the mud of the author's…
ambition
this is a plaintive whisper tossed into the extended palms of my ever-fickle playmate ambition she is statuesque, commanding unnervingly lovely and bright living like she means it and sometimes yearning for me i can see the deep creases in the skin of her hands taut and grasping tendons fighting…