Flash Stories
-
Their version of history. Their eyes. Caught. In a spiderweb of memories, both lovers; no, something more connected; a husband and a wife are here to recall, not renew, their vows. Together, until death do the both of them apart. Until the rottenness of flesh will tear one asunder into the earthen grey, while the
-
Echo. Echo out, and then, remain sad. We say to you, a little fog cannot blind those eyes. Hold your piercing scream to the wind, and then let us breathe of you. Allow ourselves. And then, we will dance to your tune. We will dream of what will sometimes never reach. Then, we will keep
-
We cannot look at love as anything other than a mode of stillness. Captivation. Here, a woman named Lisa breathes, brought down upon a loveseat from her husband, Jonathan, and his hands. He has kissed her forehead, remaining damp to his lips from exertion. A wandering smile, darts from East to West across his mouth,
-
I lay here, recounting the days that you have said those words upon the lakes. Upon where ripples cast ever greater waves, while loosening tides from your eyes, to your lips. There is great sickness, here. There is great powerlessness, here. Among me, so much is torn. Among you, there is much more to be
Modern Romanticism 