By summer, they would bear heavy fruit. Red, ripe, and gleaming like truth finally unearthed. The neighbors would marvel and say the soil here must be special.
short story
Sometimes you feel that love is the kind of thing you have to get good at.
I began to wonder if I had been relegated to live in complete and utter isolation from any and all genuine connection.
I blinked and there she was. An old woman wrapped in layers of clothes, a crumpled paper doll with a conductor’s hat.
When I was little, I dreaded art class. I hated the walls of the basement, I hated the […]
My grandma’s going to die soon. Nobody wants to say it, but we all know the day will […]
I knew I was undead when I looked in the mirror and saw that my skin was bare. […]
Do lonely people know they’re lonely? Do they acknowledge the truth of their existence? When one is lonely, […]
(please note, I use the word love very loosely) August. I love August. I love the way the […]
I didn’t know my grandfather very well. He lived an inspirational life; too bad I didn’t know that while he was still here.