Thursday, January 5, 2012


the opening paragraph of one of seven short stories from my next book... enjoy.

I was existing under a plate of glass, those butterflies on display in an old museum pinned down at the wings and one through their sternum. The sheets needed to be washed. I was watching the way they wrinkled when I moved. Those were the big moments, from one side to another. I could see the cheap sewing, the low thread count of the washed out yellow, they were soft once I’m sure.

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