Wild ginger smelled metallic, the cool wind lifting lightly, playfully through the hair stranding her…

Someone from Really Red had had the bright idea (and bright it was) to use…

On Ten Fingers My gaze a tuning fork’s hum the intervals of my bloodstream fall…

In the pale afternoon … In the pale afternoon the sun sinks into its sunset,…

Is the novel dead? If not, it is the most absurdly complacent of art forms,…