I’m doing that thing I do, where I ease out of my own skin and observe. I watch, seemingly from afar, but usually, exceedingly close. I’m not judging, just observing, noting. I can still see his twenty-something year old face underneath the mask of later life that he wears. All things considered, his prolonged time… Continue reading The Farmer and His Wife.
Tag: short-story
Penny’s for your thoughts…
It’s so goddamn hot outside. The kind of hot where it’s hard to think straight. I knew this and tried to be thoughtful about my outfit and still, there’s little that can be managed in this kind of heat. I’ve learned that even the lightest black or white cotton will betray you, showing slivers of… Continue reading Penny’s for your thoughts…
The Shortest Long Beach.
Christine looks around, trying to remember what it was like when this space felt joyful. She felt so goddamn lucky when she got this apartment. A godsend. Inexpensive, great location. Sure, the traffic sound was a little intense at first, but that faded in time. The first time she saw the apartment, she was awestruck.… Continue reading The Shortest Long Beach.
Franz.
There’s a moment where I’m staring at the Zoom icon and then suddenly, his face fills the screen. I take him in in bits and pieces. Round tortoiseshell plastic framed glasses, broad forehead, full lips formed into a semi-frown and sweat dotting his hair line. I instantly wonder if he’s just come from some activity… Continue reading Franz.
Sorry, Sarah.
I pause and kick the broken asphalt just in front of the filthy right toe of my Asics. I need to change to a new pair, but I’m resistant because it’s still such shitty weather. Almost there, I think. Fucking asshole, I say into the foggy early morning air. What is bubbling inside of me… Continue reading Sorry, Sarah.
Happy Galantine’s Day, Devi.
I’ve named her Devi because she closely resembles a woman I knew in college. Her hair is jet black and the kind of wavy I admire-frizz free and giving off curling iron feels. I know she didn’t though, use a hair tool. It’s just her hair. I know that in the subconscious way she keeps… Continue reading Happy Galantine’s Day, Devi.
The Antidote to Hate.
She is ambling down the sidewalk-her baby legs reminding me of one of those dogs that can either be walked or placed comfortably in a purse. Her leggings are cranberry colored, and the puffer jacket that makes her diminutive frame look only slightly bigger than a minute, is something akin to fuchsia, but it works.… Continue reading The Antidote to Hate.
