Short Fiction

A Beheaded Cart

My grandfather had one love: my grandmother.

Butterflies are Laughing

My little brother lies bleeding on the rug. Two gory rivulets, two injured wrists, delineate a perfect circle.

Con Man Cometh

The signs are here, the gestures, the infinitesimal movements that you cannot control. I lurk. I know that definite look, that imperceptible twitch, the inevitability of your surrender.

Death of the Poet

Five minutes prior to his death, he made use of a stained rotary dial phone, its duct-taped parts precariously clinging to each other. His speech was slurred but his interlocutor - a fan - thought it nothing extraordinary.