The Red Paint Flaking Free

  • December 11, 2016
  • W.R.Smith

In this old barn, something almost remembered. In the faded corn powder and littered straw; boards creaking underfoot, between the rafters and soft dirt below – shafts of illumined dust shimmering. Yes, something like a spirit maybe, only hidden in the very frame and footprint of the place, red paint flaking free, rotted tires within, and mouse nests – lots of mouse nest in the air.

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Animal Magic

  • December 8, 2016
  • W.R.Smith

On a nightstand the clock radio flipped a digit. Grace sat on the edge of bed in her underwear. She was painting her toenails best as humanly possible with her back to the bathroom light, a cigarette dangling from her lips, and two drinks down.

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The Speckled Egg

  • December 7, 2016
  • W.R.Smith

I am the speckled egg,
the nest in the breeze,
your feet on the ground,
and the hole in your sleeve.
– Anonymous

Once there was a house set upon the edge of a dark forest. The man of the house was a widower. He had two children, Marta, and Rico, who so loved one another that whenever they were apart they could only be sad.

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