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Postcard-sized flash fiction about the things we think we know about others, life, death, and everything in between. And it all starts with an image...

Morning Skies

I wore pajamas and flipflops while drinking coffee from my Snoopy cup—never did pay much attention to what I looked like. A woman, hair bottle-bronzed, sat next to me on the bus stop bench. She had a sensible look, white tennis shoes with an A-line skirt down past her knees, you know, sensible.   I said to her, “You know the kind of people who talk about their summers like they was straight from a Hallmark channel movie? All dreamy and perfect?”   The woman sat her canvas purse...

Hanging laundry outside a Portugal apartment.

Down the Cobblestone Road

People often asked where I get the inspiration for my stories. For those of you who know me personally, you might know that my inspiration comes from the photographs I take. Party of my creative process is making time to explore with my camera, looking for broken down, colorful and sometimes strange settings or objects that tell a story.  Most of the time, I wander my neighborhood or downtown Phoenix. But occasionally, I wander a little further from home.   This year my family and I made...

Postcard-sized flash fiction about the things we think we know about survival, death, and everything in between. And it all starts with an image...

Survive

You hear voices. Whispered, slithering words that climb over each other as they crawl across dirt and dead grass to get to you.   You can’t remember the last time you heard a human voice, but you know these aren’t human. These are the sounds of the dead, buried under your field. Fertilizing the seeds you planted last year.   They live inside your gut and your mind. They are your sanity and your madness.   Can you hear what they say? Survive, they whisper. Survive....

Postcard-sized flash fiction about the things we think we know about candy, death and everything in between. And it all starts with an image...

HIDE AND SEEK

It was the boys turn to seek. Where was his sister hiding?   The boy smelled candy and ginger. From a distance, the ruin of a wall looked like stone and mortar, but as he crept closer, as the light hit its textured face, the boy saw marshmallow oozing between slabs of gingerbread. He swiped a finger over the white, soft candy and sucked it off with all the pleasure of eating the forbidden.   He peered through the arched opening. Sugary smells of grape and apple and strawberry...

Postcard-sized flash fiction about the things we think we know, old doors and life and everything in between. And it all starts with an image...

Chained

The chains rattled and clanged as they wrapped his arms and locked him down. They had left him there wearing the same peeled paint and weathered wood suit he always wore.   He hung his lattice in shame.   He never did know his crime, even to this day. ...

Postcard-sized flash fiction about the things we think we know, ghosts and fools and everything in between. And it all starts with an image...

The Fool

I told the fool not to look at me straight on. Keep to the mirrors, to puddles, chrome bumpers or windows––I don’t want to see the red-veined whites of your eyes, I told the fool.   But like all fools, he wasn’t the listening kind.   It was the kind of day when anything could happen, sun or rain, music making or lovemaking, ripped jeans or suit pants. It’s the kind of day a dead man like myself feels most at home. It is also the day the fool...

Postcard-sized flash fiction about the things we think we know, haircuts and everything in between. And it all starts with an image...

Let Your Hair Down

Here’s the thing about Rapunzel, she was a DJ and lived on the second floor and truth be told, it wasn’t but a twenty-foot drop from her window to the street.   She had cut her hair when she was eighteen and has rocked an indigo blue mohawk ever since. Colorful inked images of dragons and Pegasus and butterflies cover her back and arms. We used to joke that if she was ever locked away in her apartment, she could just fly away with all those wings.   And...

the art of a broken heart, flashfiction

Music of Starlight

The heart lies beside him, whole, pink and beating. Thump. Thump, the drumbeat of someone who knew how to make music or war. She picks it up and cracks it open on the nearest rock.   Rumors and legends spread throughout the kingdom of unimaginable treasures found inside human hearts. They are just rumors, but still, it can’t hurt to take a look. Seeds and string and feathers fall from the broken heart––seeds of hate and lust that never did catch hold and grow, strings, thin but strong,...

Postcard-sized flash fiction about the things we think we know about death, life and everything in between. And it all starts with an image...

Ten cents and a femur bone

The price of a call to the afterlife is ten cents and a femur bone. Just so you know, I don’t make them rules. But I can tell you how to bend them a little. Nowhere in the admissions guidelines does it say whose femur it has to be. I’ve seen all kinds, animal, and human, and some are nastier than others. Let’s just leave it at that.   It’s tricksy business facilitating those calls. I’ve had people meltdown in more ways than I thought possible....

What I remember about that day...

What I Remember

the sun pouring like honey through our bedroom window   drinking lukewarm coffee because I don't want to get up and not hear you breathe just to nuke it hot   the red of the apple I had for lunch, the crunch of it when I bit in   the white of fresh stucco on the place across the street, the black windows staring back   you, cooking onions and garlic and tomatoes and speaking poetry to me   drinking wine, the reddest and fullest we’d ever had, or maybe that’s just what I remember   the...