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    Fiction,  Portfolio,  Writing

    The Root of Echoes

    Few questions in the English language can truly end the world as you know it. “Do you love me?” he asked, not knowing the answer—unsure if he even wanted to know. “Is that your son?” they gasped, as their forks and knives fell from their hands to the table and floor. “Where is he?” she screamed; she shouldn’t have waited so long to ask. Each question is the origin point of vastly different diverging parallel universes, is a forked path in the woods with a multiplicity of exits: I love you. He’s wearing a dress. He’s gone home. You repulse me. Yes that’s him, why is he wearing a dress.…

  • Fiction,  Portfolio,  Writing

    Scheherazadenfreude

    If she had parked closer, she would have seen that the front door — wood dull and damp — hung half-open, swung inward as if on some slant. Sarah had parked around the bend at the bottom of the driveway, her view of the house blocked by the trunks of two Douglas firs. She couldn’t see the details of the house, but she could imagine them. She could imagine shadows slipping and crawling from every orifice of the structure, slinking up the doorframe to obscure the house number, and covering up the small square window off to the side. Unnatural, more-than-dark darkness clinging to the undersides of the faded russet…