Friday, March 29, 2013


As the water grew cold, she sank lower into the tub and fidgeted. The incense had long since burned out, but its oaky aroma lingered.

Eventually she climbed out, wrapped herself in a towel, and went to her bedroom window, where she pretended to watch passing cars while gazing at her reflection.

Thursday, March 28, 2013


He hugged himself in the dark and tried to sleep, his ratcheting heartbeat barely keeping pace with the fleeting images flashing in his mind.


I pulled the shirt from the hamper and nuzzled it against my mouth, breathing in memories of grass, dirt, smoke, sweat, and you.


He traced a figure-eight on her bare leg as her phone's wan light lit her face. A smoldering cigarette hump limply on her lips.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013


I sat on the low rock wall, sucking a horehound drop and squinting into the sun. A gust of wind trailed each passing car, mussing my hair.


The boy's tiny hand let go of the cold, wet dirt, which made an echoless thud as it hit the flat face of his grandfather's wooden coffin.

He didn't wash that night when they got home from the funeral, leaving dirt caked under his nails. "Papa and I are holding hands," he said.

Tuesday, March 26, 2013


The sticky sweetness of dust and rain as they mix with the lingering rose petal perfume worn by woman who boards the bus ahead of you.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013


Sometimes the grass smells like watermelon, and you just lie there with your eyes closed and breathe.