Drawing someone my soul knew a hundred years ago seemed a terrifying ordeal, one that could only be unsatisfying.
Drawing someone my soul knew a hundred years ago seemed a terrifying ordeal, one that could only be unsatisfying.
Quarteira. The apartment is temporary and still smells of someone else's cooking.
I was thirteen, and it was our first Mother’s Day in America.
After hiking six miles up the Big Sur mountain trail, Bob and I reached our backcountry campsite and found six men sitting around a campfire.
Right outside the entrance, an older woman’s paper bag breaks.
We walked Mission Street, a film reel of landmarked memories illuminated by each car's passing headlights.
The Texas desert was new moon dark, our truck the only thing moving for miles, stars everywhere.
I'm 16, jacketless (youthful vanity), and alone in a car park.
She stares with eyes as blue as mine. Fiercer, though, perhaps.
Seems an extreme reaction but when something goes wrong—like now, the blind chains tangling together—I want to shave all my hair off.
My 22-year-old goldfish darts across the tank, her tail covered with white spots, her body swollen and lopsided.
I kneel by the water and tuck the hand-painted stone into the nook of a fallen log.
I sit quietly while a friend tells a story from my past. It’s a favor—he’s my surrogate, projecting as I can’t.
Everyone in this story is dead except me.
“If both of us were hangin’ off the side of a mountain, you’d try to save her first.”
A shot glass of pineapple liqueur on my kitchen counter.
The courtroom doors closed but the confrontation wasn't over. Dad wanted to speak with us.
I am 13 and I have a revolver in my hands. I am aiming for a silhouette of a man.
I’d waited at my friend’s funeral to share the poem I’d written about him, the one his wife asked me to read.
They found me my first week of college: a wild-eyed religious group, sure in the knowledge that they were the true Chosen.