Fernanda, Spanish by birth and raised in Nice, was a tour guide. She usually met tourists in Cannes and drove,…
I don’t want to, no, no… Look inward, ah, that ratty soul. Shaded and busy cobwebs all foul. If you…
There are mornings, disordered but soaked in clarity. French perhaps, Italian perhaps, I wanted and was confused. I’ve yearned in…
“No, I can’t do this. Please stop. I just…I just can’t take this. Really.” She was angry. Frantic. Pierre was…
Guillermo steered the car with both hands gripping the smooth steering wheel. She was next to him. Fernanda. Her hair…
This hard California rain. The kind that digs in your soul with a spoon. Not in months and then drains…
Her nose, a slightly large one with a less than straight profile, wrinkled and then her glossy lips, the ones…
He walked in, like an old man, stooped shoulders, a halting gait and sleet slid from his raincoat and doused…
Yes, I do love you. But there is reckless terrain scattered, By the gods to navigate. The funny field’s bounty…
I slept in drunken happiness. And arose in terror. Their organs are hooked fish. They tick tacked through the hall.…