by James Sennett chair was not Bonnie’s. How could it be? None of the telltale slouching evident in the faded cushions made of crushed flowers of indiscriminate species. Fitting just so for the visitor to lounge for a bit before taking the money of the neighbor you hated for stealing your recipe of some pie or other. Like it mattered anyway.
by Stasha Powell Even then, I wrote delusions, nightmares easier to slip into than face the truth. I traced perfect curves on crooked lines, lost in the rhythm, losing time, punctuation a casualty in the chaos of my mind. I hid secret friends in the cracks of fantasy, their whispers easier to hear than the noise outside. Phone calls…