ほっといて

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Motorcrash.mp3

This is a poem I wrote in honor of a closing February. CW: suicide

hadn’t thought of dying for 93 daysbut the counter’s back at 0while waiting at the stoplight “how easy it would beto accelerate into the half-frozen river” I both wanted it and did not want it,the idea like kettle corn at the fair,so crunchy and sweet, excessive,so soon stale Continue reading Motorcrash.mp3

Motorcrash.mp3

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Everything Must Go

Flash fiction and photo by yours truly. I wrote this story some time ago while reminiscing about an old mansion in my hometown that they converted to an antiques store. The photo is from that store, long since closed.

She woke before dawn to secure the sign into her yard. “EVERYTHING MUST GO!” it said in large, block letters she had traced from a stencil. “EVERYTHING” was waiting under blanketed tables in the garage, which she trundled out into the driveway as the neighbors’ lights clicked on for the day. She sipped from a thermos of coffee, breathing heavily with the strain of lifting and the uneasiness of…

Everything Must Go

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Amish Tracks (Part 1)

A tale of three friends spending their summer together in a small Iowa town before returning to college. Nostalgic in all the right ways, especially if you grew up in the early 00s.

Note: This is a WIP. I haven’t shared WIPs in years, but I am hoping that doing so inspires me to keep going and see the thing through to the end. The best comp I can give for this piece (and hope to achieve at the conclusion) is Perks of Being a Wallflower set in a small Iowa town. Please let me know if you have any parts you like, or things you want to see in future sections! I hand Nick the…

Amish Tracks (Part 1)

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Ode to Flying Squirrel

Loss, sorrow, hope, and renewal, all through the eyes of a lone little squirrel. ;)

I used to believe inspring creatures that flew The butterflies and larksthat carried me to you. But in the autumn of lifeI lost that desire Of wing against wing,melodies upon highwire. Because you had left me,now just marrow and cinder On streetlamp I wept,eyes swollen, and tender. Though now, in winter,souls are huddled, collective I dream once again, ofyour memories,…

Ode to Flying Squirrel

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March, German Village

A poem about that first date feeling

the first time I saw you, you were far away,a block or two—I knew it was youthrough the spring snow hazethrough the pink tint of the city-smog dayby the uncertainty in your walk,that first date electric shock

March, German Village

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No More Quiet Rooms

This one is a little personal. And a little spicy. And a little sad. What a combo...

I am naked in front of a mirror, examining myself again. Mid-20s, average build, ungainly to someone in the spotlight but perfectly acceptable for a chef; mine is a body worn by the average everywhere. A softness to the edges, flat yet firm ass. That’s my body, a space I scrutinize way too often, a bad habit I would love to break. There is classical music playing from the portable speaker on the…

No More Quiet Rooms

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Rumspringa

The old life rearranges itself around you like a table setting. Small suitcase upon childhood bed. The inhalation of familiar smells—wood stove, pine cleaner, remnants of bacon grease. Mother tending to the house, the steely corners of her starched dress. Father a phantom, a bearded shadow floating in and out of the barn, a clanging noise in the basement, wrench against furnace pipe. You find it…

Rumspringa

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The Best of Friends

The best of friends are glued together on the sofa, wrapped in a mélange of blankets, the blasting AC sprouting goosebumps on their exposed wrists as they pass a joint back and forth, the cold air decreasing their body temperatures, combatting the friction of the undercover exploration. Ice spins around slowly in plastic cups of pinot grigio, box-poured. Around them, wasted partygoers are…

The Best of Friends

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Dead Worm on the Basement Floor

A poem about a dead worm. Complex, but not. Poem 1 in a project I hope to work on in 2025.

Silurian conduitBraiding the soilSightless, unseen It would not know “light”But wonders— What of this strange fractureThis slight warmthWhat is beyond it? An “un-earthing” occursOr “ex-earthing” or “in-airing” The nomenclature of inversion In that moment, the worm learns that“Lost” is a loneliness It must learn theseTruths quicker than usIts timeline torn, uncertain It realizes: “Lost” is…

Dead Worm on the Basement Floor

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[Memorystone]

ancient poem that returned to me

School children littered the asphalt, weaving through aslalom of orange and yellow traffic cones, but there beneath the calming shadow of the play-ground oasis elder, sat a boy made of glass. He wore a semicircle smile and hand-me-downs found at the bottom of a garage sale free bin; in his hand, clutched like the innocence of spring, abouquet of dandelions plucked from the Earth stained his…

[Memorystone]

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Planting Season

Seed I would spend hours out among the collection of Arkansas pines that hugged the eastern edge of the property, breathing in their ethereal presence that seemed imbued with a bygone, forbidden magic. Instead of unloading the semi, assembling the dining table and chairs, doing anything to further the idea that you and I were now permanent, stationary creatures trying out that thing called…

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Jerusalem

The old man always seemed one step away from death. Like the next one would claim him, the reaper mawing at his heels would finally snag a bony ankle and drag him to the underworld. You always thought that it was the strict adherence to routine that kept him alive, as was common with many of the Japanese men you knew from work at the marketplace. Twelve-hour days on his feet allowed for the…

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Independence Day

After the fight, the mother took the children across the state line to buy fireworks, and the father went to the garage to work on the car he’d been restoring. As soon as the mother left the house, her remaining tears evaporated instantly from the heat. Inside the garage, the father’s sweat formed a clinging bond between the back of his shirt and his skin. He bent over the hood, peering into the…

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Adona Sleeps on Mount Ararat

Adona Sleeps on Mount Ararat

And Marla is sitting behind the wheel of the old four-by, driving past her now. It is dusk on the eastern outskirts, and way out past the three curves where my brother lives are the first stars. Adona is buried somewhere in the golden light of end day, in the dregs of sunlight that are still seeping into the basin of the river valley through the clouds. The family lot at Mount Ararat Cemetery is…

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Amigara Mountain

Adapted from 阿弥殻断層の怪 (Amigara Dansō no Kai) by Junji Ito One — The Earthquake There was a lull in big-ticket news stories that summer, so when the quake hit, the media blitz that ensued seemed a bit excessive at first. It was true that several rural villages and towns, of the few that even remained anymore, were hit with mild setbacks, but no damage had struck the City, where most of the…

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Garage

Maybe it would be better if humans had cat eyes that could reflect when a light shines on them. Little pearlescent ovals, there in the darkness. I live in a world where I own a garage, and in the garage there is a person I don’t know, waiting for me. The person has a 401(k) but doesn’t know what it means. In their head, they read it as “Four oh one, kay?” I know this because I do the same. John…

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To YOUNG ONE, Dead on My Roof

To YOUNG ONE, Dead on My Roof

i.the icelandic wordgluggaveðurloosely translates to“window weather”and how fittingfor that dayin early april ii.when a sinister shapetook my window, allrook and malice,primordial sound-terrorecholalia caw, caw, awand perched on theplateau of my garage — iii.•scanning, scanning•buttonblack were his eyes,obsidianand carrioncrazed!the raven slid his talonspianist-like across the shingles (more…)

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