Red Cedar
More apocalypse, less angst
Category: Writing
Hands
Callous and sinew drive distraction grasp soft hips with rough skin Wander hills descend into thickets without compass but sure of direction Bind like rope around wrists a raft anchored in swift water Open up to the ocean coaxing the tides to come rolling… Continue Reading “Hands”
a fiction from the granville street bridge (part 4)
here is a photograph: in this picture is our heroine – she is turning 19 in a haze of MDA (both ingested and smoked) and hard liquor. in two months one of the men in this photo will rape her, within five years the… Continue Reading “a fiction from the granville street bridge (part 4)”
a fiction from the granville street bridge (part 3)
it’s a scar not a scab , so if i keep at this i don’t think it will bleed. and you might wonder now why i am continuing – why i do not walk away now just as i did not walk away then….… Continue Reading “a fiction from the granville street bridge (part 3)”
a fiction from the granville street bridge (part 2)
(this post follows this one) in writing about this man, the artist who gave me the fifteen dollars to lie down beside him (and no, i did not have to touch, it was all about proximity), i have remembered one other thing he gave… Continue Reading “a fiction from the granville street bridge (part 2)”
a fiction from the granville street bridge
there it was – on the bridge waiting for me – a memory i had forgotten about entirely. the despair of an 18-year old girl drenched in december rain – looking over at mid-span and thinking “if i go over with this pack on… Continue Reading “a fiction from the granville street bridge”
Red Cedar 