fiction

Filthy Guilt

At times, I write out of guilt. That has to be a bad thing, right? It’s a wasted emotion, an attachment to judgment, something endured by lapsed Catholics. Guilt is nothing but a filthy animal. Truth is, I don’t really… Read More ›

Stream of Words

Stream of conscious. Streams are a conscious thought, now. I used to collect tadpoles with my brother. I used to pretend the lazy water turned into rapids and my tadpoles were saved from impending death-by-rock-and-water. Just maybe, I saved them…. Read More ›

Write On, Man

Those aren’t pillows!   Prompt:  Why do I write? (Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg) Date: 18 October 2011 Location:  26B I write because I know it is going to take a lifetime of writing to explain the answer.  I… Read More ›