Selected Prose

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.

The birds don’t come here anymore—not since the burned-out husk appeared in the woods.

You’ve spent the last three hours screaming. On a hospital bed. In a small city.

Also published in Entropy Magazine. Read here.

Originally published in Projector Magazine. Read here.