Tag Archives: microfiction


I balled up my grief between my hands, like snow, until the cold settled into my bones. I imagined I could hear your voice calling me into the house.

My fingers opened; I left my sorrow under the junipers, waiting for spring.


Some stories come gently, drifting in and settling on the page.

Others stories fight the telling. Tooth and claw, they snarl and bite.

I wrestled a wolverine into a cage and left it on your doorstep. I dare you to open it.

The History of Time

The universe expanded and contracted. Stars were born; stars died. Entire civilizations rose and fell and rose, golden ages giving way to silver and silver to their own slow inevitable decline. All in the few short seconds since your lips left mine.


She said it again this morning; she tells me every day.

“I don’t know why you bother. Nothing will come of it.”

And every day I push back. Reach for one more minute, one more word. Someday I will shut her up.


Let the wolves circle. I never doubted you. Even now, your spine presses against mine; your blood pulses in my veins. I clench my fist, oath-scarred and full of rage.

“You ready?”

I hear your feral grin and nod. “Let’s do this.”