Red Thread

Our bare arms tangle. I don't move away. Neither does she.


Another Apocalypse

My dog was dead. My heart was broken. And the sky was on fire.


Prof. Iris Rampling, Director of the academic center and my boss, was on her way home, monochrome in head-to-toe black, bag over her shoulder, perfectly straightened bob of white hair fluttering. She asked me with the efficiency of a woman who is late for her evening gin and tonic if I was uncomfortable by Anthony's attention.


Unseasonal, your habits / Start and cease


It felt for me like so many of mom's habits, hovering, overprotective.


I was hooked, of course: I'm the kind of guy who only just avoided getting a tattoo saying "I contain multitudes."