When I was fourteen, I asked my mom about hippies.
“Mom, were you a hippie in the sixties?”
She didn’t look up from her needlepoint. “What? Of course not.”
“But I thought everyone in the sixties was a hippie,” I
She lounges, nude, in the long window seat, long legs draped over velvet cushions threaded with silver. The stars and gas giants, ripped from galactic tranquility, rumble and flare as her ship saunters by. She loves their two-fold reaction of
Throwback from 2012:
Microw, a flash fiction supplement to Full of Crow Press and Distribution, published one of my stories. Following the summer theme of “Home,” the story is titled “A Myth Much Prettier than Home” and peeks
The sun sank low on the dirty gray horizon, and Ulrich the Goblin watched the tiny glows of the fairies rising into the sky as they hurried to their assignments. He imagined the fading red rays shining on their iridescent
Rockstar Betty was a weasel–a hardcore weasel– and wouldn’t take any shit from any punk-ass bitches who got between her and stardom. It was tough out there in a man’s world; a weasel had to work damned hard to make …
Blog coming soon!…