It is July so everything burns. Avenue X smells like dying fish and simmering sludge. The sidewalk has cigarette burns. … Continue readingMy Cells, My Snakeskin

by Christine Seifert Ellen’s room could hardly be called a room; it was more of a storage closet, a tiny, airless enclosure right off the kitchen. Just big enough for a bed and a wooden shelf where she kept her clothes neatly folded. Underneath the … Continue readingDeterminism