Selected Prose

I thought again about why we did it. Why we put ourselves through it, the routine of all that strain, that punishment, just to see how quickly we could travel through space.

I remember a time when nobody questioned my place here. Not even me. But these days when I walk into the pool, my friends are already laughing at something they never tell me about.

As a kid, I remember dreaming of a colour-coordinated bookshelf that would span my bedroom wall like an art piece. In my dream scenarios, reading is not a performance for others to observe, but a private act.

Here the leaves don’t fall. Nothing blooms in spring except for the weeds that find their way through the cracks of Gumdale’s sun-bleached driveways. Violet once heard that’s how the light gets in—through the cracks.

in the kitchen doorway i cradle a stick of sunlight as it slides through the window and across my palm. it’s slippery like a fish. kind of salty, too. my cupped hands let cracks of it splash to the floor.

We’re going somewhere. A dip in the road foretells of the valleys ahead.

Also published in Entropy Magazine. Read here.