I have worked for this. I have left a path in the woods, shiny objects placed strategically for you to follow in lieu of signage, knowing you would sense the…
Her face is above mine. Ripples murmur over her features—black brows in slim lines. A too-large nose. Perfectly formed lips in plumped half-wedges. Rounded cheeks, pale. A tumble of raven-hued…
Father dug me from the garden as handfuls of clay. Mother shaped me like dough, threaded me through with bones of cedar. They etched words into my skin with a…
And there he sat, in strange despair, until his lamp flickered in the socket and left the Artist of the Beautiful in darkness. –Nathaniel Hawthorne, “The Artist of the Beautiful” …
Though cramped, the confines of the backseat exist miles away from anything. The only light comes from the green of the dash and the driver’s lit cigarette, embers glowing crimson.…
after Juliet Cook’s Planchette Sly gait to my bedside is wonton and sickly. I want to see you fall. You’re an arsenic lure. I’m the fish who likes dark miasma.…
It’s just like the story: You have this lover that you meet in the woods—you’re always out wandering in the woods, have been climbing those trees since you were a…
Just as the men were about to prick off Seth’s fingers one by one, lights shone in the dark, in the vineyards, in trees that were mangled, but once inviting,…
“O my heart which I had from my mother! O my heart of my different ages! Do not stand up as a witness against me” –The Ancient Egyptian Book of…
1 October is unsure of itself: stuck between September and November, the middle child of decay, it tries to bite its elbows unsuccessfully because it never ran away with the…
Gingerbread House Lit Mag 