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Life on Earth began as a gum wrapper made of aluminum, lying on a sidewalk; several stalks of peppermint grew inside it.
Human life began as a series of interruptions in global telecommunications—later explained as Sun spots. Our primary line of flight extends from a point (a mole on god’s face) and eventually intersects with a moment where it properly becomes an actual line of flight instead of a romantic novel:
a caterpillar is simply a caterpillar—it’s not a moth. […]
→ No CommentsTags: Poetry · Experimental · Prose · Surrealism
Once a week, Quinn walks up the hill to visit Arbelia. He brings her bouquets of wild flowers and pages of questions. Quinn is a 24 year old small town boy who’s been traveling and studying. Arbelia is a 79 year old poet, storyteller, witch, gardener, mother and grandmother. She has been incarcerated for 24 years. Quinn is interested in consciousness expansion and Arbelia used to guide people on Shamanic journeys. They were introduced by a mutual friend and have been having visits together for a year or so. They began to scratch the surface and eventually carved out a deep friendship. A real realm of their own. They’ve been calling it traveling. With word play along the way. So once a week, Quinn heads down to the prison for a brief visitation and he and Arbelia hit the road together.
→ No CommentsTags: Fiction · Experimental
The last thing he remembers before boarding is her struggled cry. Forced. Propelled on a viscous sheen of illustrious longing, headed straight for his heart strings.
“Enosh, please,” her saline-polished eyes full of tears, she pleads, “don’t go.” […]
→ No CommentsTags: Fiction
From her vantage point, she can see a timeless world unfolding its secrets. Endless hues of color wrestle for attention as she gazes over the terrain spreading out from the mountain spire. Her perch in this panoply of life. […]
→ No CommentsTags: Fiction
Life trickles away, I watch it escape, like a last gasp, in the cold, frost on the air, blanking out the blanket of prospective poppies, clutching at my lungs, you can see it. […]
→ No CommentsTags: Fiction · Experimental