Prose & Poetry

“It’s getting closer,” she said, her eyes on the smoke rising from the ground after the […]

The crowd becomes groups.  The groups become individuals as they slowly file out the front door,

Eighth Avenue is covered in dirty white snow. “What’s up, guys,” I say, pushing open the

notes chime your wordson an otherwise silentscreen. that same spikeof adrenaline bursts in myveins uninvited inspiration

                                                                                                             Transubstantiation             On her wedding day in 1821, Charlotte Freeman was eager to feel grown

my heart is a turnipgrown to an absurd extenta rutabaga wrested from the groundwith undue influencedried

Every Christmas, come ghost stories,come cocoa-powder, come rough childrenrolling down hills, out of bodies, come bodiesrolling

Denise waddles down the hallway to her creative writing class like a brown Mrs. Pac-Man, struggling

Ours are the quiet hours when I reach for a coffee handed over  my shoulder. Minds