TIMELINES The night sang like a trance, its banshee voice raising eerie goosebumps on the cockles of my heart. He is still dead. Permanently dead. Ever since the phone call at 6. He had waited for more slices of time and space than what was available on the time list of fate, or, in the …

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Source: pexels (Alex Azabache)

If the World was Ending

If the world was ending, I would let my cat choose one of my fingers. If she chooses the index finger, I would listen to her soft vowels and curious chanting about her past eight lives. She keeps telling me I was a Persian cat once. If she licks my thumb, I will set off …

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Source: pexels (sunsetoned)


You found me having conniptions on my way to the first date. Trying to trace small careful measured steps, speaking measured words and drinking measured wine because overdoing things is my specialty and I didn’t want to spread my talents on a sheet for you on the very first day. To be honest, I was …

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Source: pexels.com

The Math of Love

You know Math expresses love more cleanly than anything ever can. I wish you the fate of parallel lines. Because parallel lines are better than intersecting lines. Those that meet and cross each other but once and then go away never to see each other again. I wish you the fate of parallel lines because …

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Source: Pexels (Anas Hind)

My Guardian Angel

My guardian angel is having a cola while looking at me making my life’s decisions.  He wonders about being in the grade C level of angels because he got me in a bad deal.  A deal that will screw him over because I never listen to him.  I rush headlong into beanpoles and walls and …

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There are no bogs, I tell myself. There are no bogs or marshes left because I have waded through them all.  I have waded through them and am already at my sweet spot. The sweetest possible spot that is so cloying saccharine sweet that I realize it is not a real spot at all.  It …

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Source: Pexels (Anete Lusina)


I think when the fates were spinning the threads of my destiny,  Some crazy nymphs must have scribbled all across it, Taking it to be a drawing board.  Someone must have graded the resulting art work poorly,  Because everything in it was as far from perfect as it could be.  My destiny was not manufactured …

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bottled dreams

Dream Peddler

Dear Seller of Fates, You read the cards of my life and sold me fate. Of course, magic and unrealism were your more popular wares but your primary product was fate.   And dreams. You peddled dreams packaged in hopes and expectations that grew in direct proportion to my clashes with reality. In a world full …

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book, rose, book mark

Is the Novel Dead?

Are mainstream authors going online?     Are mainstream authors going online? As Salman Rushdie starts publishing on Substack, the quintessential question knocks on the doors of the reader’s mind…are we going back to serialized novels?     Charles Dickens began the same way. And so did Samuel Richardson. And Leo Tolstoy. Are we going …

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The Word is Wild

“Africa is mystic; it is wild; it is a sweltering inferno; it is a photographer’s paradise, a hunter’s Valhalla, an escapist’s Utopia. It is what you will, and it withstands all interpretations. It is the last vestige of a dead world or the cradle of a shiny new one.” (Beryl Markham) I felt new. Newly …

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