First published in City Works, Vol. 24
In the waning days, I scrolled between documents and crash screens, beating the heels of my hands to the rhythm of laminate wood. I chugged water before roll call and huddled in my compatriots’ doorways. The ghost left our unanswered letters in place and we shrugged and said to each other, “Go get some sleep.”
In the waning days, my breadcrumb trails lit a diamond window—four corners of ladders. I took home the crowns of Spanish moss and saved them for January. I dug space on the landing for a sleeping bag, a tent. We held our breath and watched the sky fill with ice. I knew I could hold out no matter what.
A catalog and experiment in which I documented each soirée, late nite confessional, regret, revelation, and adventure for the span of a year.
Read here.
The forest cuts off the swell of the sun as we take the guns into the trees.
Read more (Forge, Issue 6.2)
He said, “She’s a good girl.”
I watched the light catch her hair.
Read more (Ghost House Zine, Vol. 4)
First published in Xenith (2009)
Eddie slides underneath the heat lamp near the open door. She says, “That’s better,” to herself and everyone standing there smiles, nods, and looks at her. Her shoulders, her knees, the seams of her coat.
Outside the garage, rain covers the landscape in sheet after sheet of mist. Beyond the concrete, the yard careens into the mouth of a soaked valley that stretches into rolling banks lit by soft living room lamps and people eating dinner.
“This is a .38 millimeter, right?” someone asks. Everyone laughs and they pass it around, aiming it into the dark yard.
“But that’s nothing.” The host brings a shotgun with a long barrel—cold, oiled, and beautiful in the dark. “Check this out.” It glows in the light from the neighbor’s house.
Eddie steps back and drops her cigarette onto the wet concrete. She watches as the rain absorbs the smoke.
“This could do some real damage, you know,” he says, wiping a cloth across the gun.
“Beautiful,” everyone says.
“It’s my dad’s Christmas present to himself,” he tells them. “Not sure if it’s even been fired yet.”
“When I was a kid,” Eddie offers, “My dad took me and my sister camping.”
Everyone turns to her.
She tells them, “We shot shotguns into the trees. You know, as targets.” She looks down at her feet, frozen to the ground. They watch her without moving.
“I only got to shoot once because he told me to hold the gun close to me, and I didn’t.” She gestures along her side. “I had a bruise that went from here to here.”
“Yeah,” everyone says, and looks away.
On the other side of the valley, someone turns on lights as they move through the house. A draft picks up, blowing rain into the garage. Everyone steps back.
“Well,” the host pulls a gun with a massive silver barrel from a shelf. “This one’s my uncle’s, and even he can barely handle it.”
Everyone laughs.
He brushes the hair from his forehead and says, “I fired it last weekend and my shoulder still hurts.”
Eddie moves to the edge of the group and watches the valley continue to be soaked. She reaches her arm into the dark, and the rain touches her in tiny, icy bursts. “Cold,” she says to herself, and pulls her hand back into the garage.
