Fictional Arts

It happens now your breath is still your own breath, your sorrow works its secret little work in you, your heart is still a stumbling fawn, in autumn. I tell you it is not too late to waken. Someone has asked

When autumn wind sighs over mitchell grass downs I look for you stencilled black against the coppery glow. We speak of simple things living a lifetime in small moments, daily doings, a dripping tap, the leaky pipe. Shifting the kettle to the

Madeline’s mirror told her she’s fat. It appalled at her shapeless dress, covering a chunk of flesh. She looked at her broad shoulders and big breasts, which reminded her of a pile of clothes that no longer fits her. But Madeline

Like shivering stars sprinkled over a black carpet of tonight, the silver bubbles rise from the bottom of the ocean of my mind and like the stars, linked together into animals and heroes – all by us, they, too, linked together,

My grandma didn’t have a kitchen for a year and a while more. She hadn’t become my grandmother yet. A just-retired husband and dwindling family income brought her pots and pans out on the courtyard of the one-room hovel they had

In what universe counting chances  under grey skies  like paper flowers.   I thought there might be a chance fragile, uncertain opening into night sun.  So many words flowing hot as lava pyroclastic, our disaster  on the move  one last entry 

                                                   Words lingered on the iridescently blue screen in one of those days that felt like any other day that had gone by. The glare was too much to bear and the words too familiar to go inconspicuous to lay  buried in

Lately, the sparring had become something of a routine, or perhaps it had always been, she mused as they ambled home from a friend’s place post-dinner. Bathed in the eerie glow of a full moon, the sparsely arranged English country

i) Dear Gaza When this is over I will come to Beit Lahia and help Mosab plant strawberries for Refaat. I will bring watermelon seeds in embroidered pouches for the children. They need the distraction. I will clear ash from the

The old man reading Alistair Urquhart’s hardcover Forgotten Highlander! but did he sit in front of me in the small mall lounge for the same reason as my own sense of lostness with that loss of love? that I will never