The sky is a soft gray ceiling, the air damp and cold, my skin dimpled like a basketball. When I lived in the desert, I yearned for such a day.
Small stone, Vol. 2, #12
Posted bySamuel Snoek-BrownPosted inA River of Stones, small stone, writingTags:A River of Stones, small stone, writing
Published by Samuel Snoek-Brown
I write fiction and teach college writing and literature. I'm the author of the story collection There Is No Other Way to Worship Them, the novel Hagridden, and the flash fiction chapbooks Box Cutters and Where There Is Ruin. View more posts