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Now, gaunt, and always coughing. Each hint of light turning his skin bright rash-red. As he sleeps the disease works its way through his veins.
Fiction
There is no conclusion here, just a long unbroken thread of related thoughts hanging over my writing like an overworked metaphor.
Personal
I need space from him, she says, taking a step back and pinning her hand under her chin as she cranes her neck up to examine the painting.
In the short story I’m writing the central piece of feedback I keep getting is that readers don’t understand the character’s motivation for starting wildfires.
just to keep writing.
+1
Soft pink blooms rise from tender green stalks as J tells me he’s been thinking of killing himself again.
Tattoos, songs, and pokopia
Consumption
The bright red drooping buds of flowers speckle the brush on the side of the road, blooming tight against a fence, knocked down by March’s heavy winds and rains.
