A writer of things.


Stuff I do. Stuff I like. Stuff I think about.

The Place with the Trees

She stopped the car in front of a place that had lots of trees and it seemed calm and nauseating and had nice windows and I didn’t like it. “Out,” she said and opened her door and got out and opened mine and yanked me by my shirt and I fell onto my knees. “Where are we?” I asked and she kept pulling and dragged me on my stomach and grinded me bloody and ruined my knees and ripped my pants. “Shut it,” she said and tossed me into the big wooden door and my nose was bleeding and she rapidly knocked and looked to me, “This is where the clean happens, the change, the good, the no more seeds, the better.” And I looked back to my muse, who inspired me and loaded the seeds into my brain and hooked me on things and made me love her and love life and love words and I grimaced as the door opened and realized that everything was going away now and there would be no more somethings and back to nothings and words were dead and sadness was real again as the seeds were ending. And I looked at the man in the coat and he looked back and I asked him, “Is this rehab?”

And he smiled.


This was published in print along with a bunch of great short-shorts HERE.