Jack began to think the wound was superficial because there was no pain. Sure, there was pain when the knife went in, sharp and cold, but now there was nothing. He was numb. Sleep. That was all that was needed, sleep. Just a little rest and everything would be okay… Jack opened his eyes, blinking
The past is not romantic. It is not an adventure. It is not a drama. It is neither a comedy nor a tragedy. It is not any of these things. But it is all of these things. Because memory cheats. Memory will take fragments of events, disjointed and vague, and merge them with hints of
I sit and look out my back window into the yard behind my house. It is large and full of trees; a combination of fir and pine and aspen. On this day, early in the morning, it is cold and fog is moving in. The white/grey translucent mist sneaks its way into the yard. It
In the darkness, you were dreaming. Dreaming and that is all. You did not see what you thought you saw. You did not experience what you thought you thought was so real. There was not a shape, a shape in the darkness. There was nothing at all. You wake to the sound of drums; a
Christmas Day, 1999. Twenty years ago. Was I at home in New York, a gentle snow falling outside, while inside blazed a warm fire in the fireplace, with presents under the Christmas tree that my children would soon open with squeals of joy? No I was not. I was in a tent, by myself,
We shared our first kiss under the cherry blossom tree. It was perfect, like a scene from the movies. I stared into her eyes and brushed her soft hair from her delicate face. I saw the blood rush to her cheeks and imagined what it would be like to feel her soft skin. Her scent
I sat for a long time at the bar. I tried to chat with Stephen, it was too busy. I wandered to the buffet table then through the main dining room, my eye caught the front door and I made my way toward it. I felt a tug at my sleeve as a slid past
2011 | Pastel - Chalk - Acrylic | on paper
I remember the night my father left. I was six. My mother told me the news with tears and sobs. My aunt, her sister, was there for hugs and support. We were in the kitchen at a yellow table; we sat on plastic covered seats. The window was open; I could smell chicken cooking next
2011 | Pastel - Chalk - Acrylic | on paper originally published November 1, 2011
