She wanted to touch it, that rust-caked, high rolled, weird wheel (remnant of a blown up grist mill?), sitting there like a steam punk manifesto. It had to be some misfit
100-Word Story My grandmother’s hand must be guiding me as I move the mahjong tiles. Winds, dragons, craks slide over a felted tabletop like the one I sat beside in childhood while the good friends played.
She lies on left side, right hand flat against her slim left rib cage, left fist under chin. She is too calm, too wrapped in images of southern beaches where she once played. Sleep does not arrive. She seeks shadows: dandelions wilted under clouds of pesticide
He bangs out jazz progressions on the grand piano, improvises chords, sight-reads a choral score, blends the notes into harmonious sound. He is seven, but not a prodigy. The music is encoded in his DNA,
He was too earthy, too down and dirty, too north to my south, too swarthy for my Irish freckled white, and yet we melded, until that restaurant, when it came apart. It was his lack of couth, uncertain as he was about forks, or how to speak to […]
It called to us, that sea-bitten fragment of a mammoth tree, barnacle-covered skin pliant from salty water, cushioned by dune bluestem, Latin name Schizachyrium littorale we discovered later. We did not run our hands
The mother saw birds, not blue jays or cardinals, wrens, the sweet birds other mothers saw, no, dark creatures with prehensile talons, massive wings, raptor faces,