Story Engine
If a story were an engine I would be able to listen to it and tell you where the error in the running was located.
the freedom in the flaw
the way you remember the story the way you wrap the gift the glass smoothed out in longshore drift some former glory something from the
Fleas On The Fleece
All the hypnotic sheeple rotated around the supermarket as the muzak seeped into them and turned their bones to jelly. They leaked a small amount
Flyer Flies
He was hung upside down above this latest little poster he had designed, hanging by Grip-Tips fastened firmly into the concrete. There was an Own-Drone
hung in a pause
the worst lies we tell are to ourselves knelt in an ebbtide; a coastal shelf hung out beyond the tread water point where swimming is
In Search Of Answers
I used to think of myself as an answer to the problems of the people that came to me, but I was wrong. They were
Suicide Note
It had a certain taste, blood sprung forth at its touch like zest from a lemon under a blade. Red mist. Someone had wanted to