The house Catie remembers is a dainty, Victorian structure with powder-blue siding that sits at the edge of a wood white with birches. There, she and her little cousins had plunged through crispy, fallen leaves in autumn, and blankets of wildflowers on dreaming, summer days when they’d been young. Her memory bears little resemblance to the house now, its windows pitch-black and the birches crowding to either side, ghostly pale beneath the moon. The taxi’s vanishing headlight

Published on GrimandGilded.com Issue 7, July 2022 The planet emerges from the brilliance of the cosmos like a tombstone from the mist,...

Originally published in The Maine Review The child is below us, but we dare to whisper, knowing the rain drowns us out; it slaps the...

I, the mold, am a keen observer of human inconsistencies. When the Lieutenant Colonel begins to fib about the Xenomatter Incident in...