meeting Prometheus

The waves crash on the shore below us.  It’s beautiful here.  I could sleep here forever...

to win, you have to smile

...that’s gonna be the heaviness of the hand of God upon you...

a stagehand’s farewell

what did Puck say? what was it...? more yielding... yielding... to dream.

unfinished dishes and TV extras

How can I explain that he’s been the same person over the course of forty or more years’ worth of TV shows...

how all wanting ends

Last night was still and quiet when I stepped out for smoke.  I had quit months ago.  But I wanted to feel that smoke in my lungs again.

three writing prompts received by email on a wednesday afternoon

I am dying, you see, and in that act of dying, I am realizing that death itself is an impatient schoolmaster.


Maybe a physical shadow – skin cells left that have combined their DNA with the tendriled confusion of the clovered outfield...

crum’s morsel (or a thing changing)

Crum went on about this place, lingering on its smells and secret footprint and whispers of rodentine residents as if it was a temple set in the lush forests of some distant land. Or maybe he saw it as a kind of Terabithia where dreams rose and fell like a restless tide from the sleep of the dead.

haerie stories to tell in the park

More than that, though, the trees grew up like the earth’s own thick hairs – unkempt, unfettered. Cattails like whiskers filled in the low areas. And from every direction, the rot of the earth’s flesh puckered his nostrils.

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