by Mike Solo-Thomson First, I had to make an offering. Instead of easing the cork out of the champagne bottle, I sent it through the air. It cleared the glass balcony and landed in the dry, crusted earth amongst the discarded grapes from today’s harvest, left to decay back into…
by Alexander Hurla Many years from now, when I’m old and gray and my joints hurt, I’ll climb into the dark attic and pull out a box from the corner— a moldy and moth-ridden one with faded words on the side. I’ll open it—almost reverently, almost scared— and wipe the dust from the picture of the crisp Marine uniform that used to…
by Alexander Hurla We’ve talked about dividing things. “Right down the middle,” we’ve said. “Fifty/fifty.” But how can we split things when you’ve touched everything that’s mine, and I’ve made my mark on everything that’s yours?
by Mike Solo-Thomson First, I had to make an offering. Instead of easing the cork out of the champagne bottle, I sent it through the air. It cleared the glass balcony and landed in the dry, crusted earth amongst the discarded grapes from today’s harvest, left to decay back into…
by Alexander Hurla Many years from now, when I’m old and gray and my joints hurt, I’ll climb into the dark attic and pull out a box from the corner— a moldy and moth-ridden one with faded words on the side. I’ll open it—almost reverently, almost scared— and wipe the dust from the picture of the crisp Marine uniform that used to…
by Alexander Hurla We’ve talked about dividing things. “Right down the middle,” we’ve said. “Fifty/fifty.” But how can we split things when you’ve touched everything that’s mine, and I’ve made my mark on everything that’s yours?