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Click an image to read one of my stories, articles, or other prose pieces.
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.
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