fiction
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Monday. Tired as I am, the world feels wide awake. The sun is warm and I can almost smell vanilla in the air. Today I Can: Breathe Deeply Alarm for 11:30 Appointment at 2:00 Wonder AloudTuesday. The sun is out today, but the brightness of morning hurts my eyes. Something stinks like gasoline. Today I…
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This is an age of polished media. I’ve talked about it before in my review of Videodrome, on how the polish often paints over the grime and devalues the time put into something imperfect. I pick apart and apart and apart my crochet projects because I’ve missed a stitch, misread the pattern, and the project…
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Paint a picture of the American West for me. Paint me sprawling yellow deserts and blue mountains reaching to the heavens, arches of red rock and dusty ghost towns beneath stone spires. Draw me the abandoned mine shafts, the long lonely highways. I want to hear the sad twang of guitar between that night sky…
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Gerald Pickering worked three jobs and needed a car to get to two of them. That was just how America worked, and that was why he didn’t look too close at the Nissan Altima his friend offered him when his Honda’s transmission fell out. His friend cut him a deal, $500 up front and he…
