Stories that never found a home

heart-lung machine

My eyelid twitches.

The rancher was thrown against the woodpile, the force of the blow knocking the air from his lungs.

Every time I close my eyes I am swallowed by a place that feels like it exists only for me…

I wish I was hiking Aesop’s mountain

Upon the winter solstice

The plane’s wing fell off, again.

I like to think I inherited the Dostoevsky Idiot gene from my papa.

We were headed to the Sheremetyevo airport.

“You will live forever,” he said.

In the anteroom people wait their turn.