Short Stories
Ah. Everything has come to a stop. A propitious
stop, soothing. The hurly-burly and sound of tribal
claims have quit. The streets are barren of noise.
The ebullient fleshy lights flicker no more. Iron
steps leading into buildings do not ring with shoes.
Windows fold under shades. Perhaps it is about to rain
I don't know. Or snow; it never snows here
Archives
The Mothers Are Always Better
Madeline
On the Bed/Making Stories
The Fatman
Henry
Conversations at the Smokehouse
Tale of a Sad Woman
After the Gulls
The Conversation
|
