I write to Heather because she hasn’t written to me. Is your daddy an alcoholic? I scribble down on thin paper. I fold it up into some lumpy triangles and send it sailing across the linoleum floor. The schoolchildren stare at the thing as it slides, all plump cheeks...
Prose
The Joy Faerie
When I woke up this morning, I couldn’t find my joy anywhere. There was an indent where I’d set it down, but its plump body was missing. Last night it had swelled up so large that it hardly fit in the car when it was time to leave. How could it already be gone? We...
My Review of The French Dispatch
On our first date, Marc-Anthony takes me to see the newest Wes Anderson movie. “He’s a visionary,” he tells me. “Just spectacular.” Marc-Anthony is a tall Italian-American boy who lives on a street named after his great-grandfather. He says that was back when you...
The Curtain
Every day at 3:47 pm, the ghost boy emerges from the shadowy hall and runs across the front room. He hides behind the olive curtain. He is naked and covered in a thin layer of chalk, and when he runs he leaves a cloud of it in his wake, which settles on the carpet...
Olive
When I was in highschool I had my first and only girlfriend. She shared her name with a pitted vegetable, and we began to date because she drove me home everyday from school in her tiny grey car. It was ornamented with all sorts of items, such as banana peels and...
The Cricket & The Girl
It was a pesky August morning. Celeste’s mother sat at the dining table drinking a strong brew while Sophia tinkered in the kitchen, baking cakes for the following day. Dense footsteps from the second floor echoed throughout the house. Celeste, a small girl in a great...