Hope was sick in a chair beside me. My shadow was the exhibit, the hypotenuse
of desire and anger. What was in me – what ravage, pulp, what sticky
language? The piñon-scented public servant stood in the rough weather of our
kitchen as wind flared and spit, as I sat silent, knees locked together. In a
specialized study of trauma, there are no shortcuts.
Book Recommendations and Reviews
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** OFFICIAL Site of Artist Ray Ferrer **
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online literary magazine
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Writer. Photographer. Literary Traveler.
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The website of fiction writer Anthony Martin
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beautiful thinking
Indulge- Travel, Adventure, & New Experiences
Movies, thoughts, thoughts about movies.
Where Imagination Becomes Realality
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