Editor's Note by Martha Nichols
Forget the muse. My attention thief looks like Harpo Marx. He’s the guy honking his horn or grabbing my leg, whether I’m sitting at the computer or under a tree.
Forget the muse. My attention thief looks like Harpo Marx. He’s the guy honking his horn or grabbing my leg, whether I’m sitting at the computer or under a tree.
They found the snake sleeping and lidless, the shape of a humped woman halfway down its length.
Wood smoke is pervasive and copies my paved serpent, creating barriers among brothers.
If a group of people, maybe our entire planet, wanted to exit the wormhole, would their desire be enough to make it happen?
Call it a microcosm or just let it stand for as long as it stands, for as long as it takes your attention and care.
I see Mars on TV.
I like first-person headshots possibly more than I like writing.
Trapped between tomorrow and today....
Instead of managing the deluge of emails and envelopes with the grace of the professional, I was crushed by them.
When I need to dig deeper, get grittier, I imagine that smoke-filled room, the overflowing ashtray, the Olivetti.