poetry

Poem: Memory Film of Point Roberts

Memory Film of Point Roberts   Summer of β€˜98 and the russet hatchback swings into a narrow, flower lined driveway. Poppies, lavender, chrysanthemums intertwine to create a marbled smudge, a watercolor painting. Further on the indigo, wind-blown log cabin perched upon a bluff blends in to the sky beyond, a two-dimensional backdrop, dangerous, a sharp… Continue reading Poem: Memory Film of Point Roberts

short stories

Part Ten: The Descent

The Descent The weight of the silence wraps around you like snow on a street at midnight. It feels different than the rest, hollow, as though inside a vacuum. You breathe in and you breathe out, in and out in and out, rapid, laboured. You wait. Your chest is tight but quickly, silently, you make… Continue reading Part Ten: The Descent

short stories

Part Nine: The Dark

The slammed door disrupts dust particles and cobwebs which dance across your face and into your nose. You almost sneeze, almost, but you hold it in. You stand there as the cloak of darkness and ever-present silence engulf you. You’re shaking, but only slightly, and the tabby presses close to you, silent as well. Your… Continue reading Part Nine: The Dark

short stories

Part Eight: The Entrace

The Entrance You walk up the cracked concrete steps towards the imposing, ink stained door. Unlike before, the tabby is close at your side, his tangerine fur grazing your jeans. He seems somber, subdued. Frightened. Does he know what lays beyond the door? Though it is august, the air has become decidedly cool, and you… Continue reading Part Eight: The Entrace

poetry

Poem: At 3 a.m.

At 3 a.m. At 3 a.m., I am not alone in my room. Shadows from cars, or something more sinister, glide across my bedroom wall. Somewhere from deep within the house, a clock ticks, a slow, ominous, persistent sound, that warns me of time rolling on.   At 3 a.m., something screeches, a jarring sound… Continue reading Poem: At 3 a.m.

short stories

Part Seven: The House

The House You walk over to the gate, run your hand over the rough, cold metal, rusted with age and weathering. You give it a push, it sticks, you push harder. It gives way with a grating sound, like nails on a chalkboard. You remember your grade four English teacher doing the same to get… Continue reading Part Seven: The House

poetry

Poem: Erased

Erased Sitting in your favorite seat next to the window at my favorite coffee shop, looking out at the strangers passing by in the blistering August heat, I realize that I no longer remember the exact color of your eyes or what your voice sounded like.   I realize that this does not upset me,… Continue reading Poem: Erased