The Lost and The Found

A young man, charcoal suit, skin cold and pallid.  Tall grass brushes against his legs as he wades deeper into an endless meadow. The waning sunlight empties gold all around, everything bathed in a fluorescent glow. There is a purpose to his journey, yet the...


There in the fine-grain dust of the apple orchard. There with the dust running through our small child hands like liquid. Like the things we can’t ever hold onto. Like the memory of the orchard on that day.

The Violin Factory

The factory was quiet, but our fingers were busy. It was delicate, painstaking work and we always kept our voices low. I told my parents to do the same. “Sorry,” said my mom. She always vaulted into gaps in conversation, afraid of what silence might drag out of her....

Sheila at the Bus Stop

She hurries to the corner to catch the 23 to South Philly. No one’s there except for some guy who's lying on the sidewalk with his head propped against the downtown convenience store’s stone column. He’s wearing a gray knit cap twisted to the right. Sheila must've...

I’m Not Listening

I’ve made up my mind that I will not listen in the meeting that starts in fifteen minutes, but they will think I am listening because I have this incredible knack for scrunching my eyebrows together like I’m concentrating, a behavior I adopted from my sixth-grade teacher Ms. Clemens.

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