Flash Fiction Peter placed the camera toward the boulevard. Once he opened the lens, it would take several minutes for what was exposed to be transferred to the silver plate. Anything that moved would be rendered a blur, or invisible. The leaves on the trees — a blur; the ladies…

Flash Fiction He slipped off his shoes, tucked them under the bench, and wiggled his bare toes. Better, but still not comfortable. He rubbed his damp soles against the carpet, drying them. Once again he wiggled his toes. Better, but still… Without thought, he pulled his sweat-soaked T-shirt off. After…

Flash Fiction Henry kicked off his shoes at the door. “I didn’t see him,” he said. “How could you not have?” Peter shoved the door closed, A fat golden retriever jumped up at him. “Down Max,” he said. “Come on.” He walked through the house to the sliding glass door…

Poetry Boyhood winters On a frozen lake, Jump from cliffs; Dream of escape. Transitions, Like clockwork thrive, Create worlds, Alter lives. Long beach walks With lanky boys Juvenile sex Higher stakes Transitions, Like clockwork thrive, Create worlds, Alter lives. Young men now Drink and smoke in bars, Laugh through life; Stay alive. Transitions, Like clockwork thrive, Create worlds, Alter lives.

Poetry …for Chris Rocks emerge at water’s edge. Annals scoring winds, Searing days, tumultuous seas. History sculpted crags. Seasons pass, regress Ocean waves chisel, Undulate, swell, surge. Lapsed time fades. Cold and heat chip change. Each spell transforms, amends. Differences appear, subtle; Extreme over eons. Lives the same lived. If deeper delved, still Fight and fortune, this one filled Evolution’s forced return.

Flash Fiction Hearing a voice, Tyrone craned his neck cautiously around the end of the tall, metal bookshelf. The talkers continued past the other end of the row, deeper into the subterranean stacks of the Columbia Library. Tyrone leaned back, refocused his eyes in the dim light on the book…

Poetry Famous creations mass sought: Smiling Mona, under glass, Aphrodite holds nothing. Corridors travelled; Gallery stops Masters hung silent, some Vibrant, others revered. Sculptors, painters, crafters most, Metal, wood, rock transformed; Marbled hall stockrooms. Miles walked, seems true Catacombed works trapped Inside venerated walls. Time Dulled; Age cracked Still lives, dead royalty Withered fruit, forgotten lands.

The trail, thick with brush in places, washed out in spots, led through the desert, seemingly so empty and dead, yet truly filled with life. A bird thrust out of a sage here, a rodent with a small white tail dashed across the path there, a jackrabbit with tall ears…

Quite clearly, the world feels as if it’s coming apart at the edges, at the seams. Fighting. Fake news. Murders. Killing. Death. Protests. Looting. Fires and destruction. The images scroll past wherever I look. On my phone and social media; on the television news and news promos between shows. …