Creative
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Creative

“Wow. Look at that. I need that. That is so pretty,” Scarlett says, pointing at a billboard in the distance entitled “Sephora Collection: Colourful Eyeshadow.” A half-open circular case of eyeshadow is showcased. Its black border surrounds a clear circular window, encapsulating some sort of...

November  2010. It is Tihar, the Hindu festival of lights. For five days, there are fireworks and rituals and prayers; everything is done for Yama, the god of death. Each day something different is celebrated: first crows, then dogs, cows, oxen, and finally, our brothers. Crows...

I’d leave the light on, keep the door unlocked (but you know where I hide the key, the backdoor’s always open for you and Elijah). there’s a place set -- your glass is upside down, so the dust never settles. your empty chair keeps the room hollow, foggy through the fall.   I’m sure if you strolled...

He is warmth  trickling  through the trees;    their leaves  casting shadows that cradle her  soft-bodied stem.  A tulip to the  sun,       she unfolds  against his touch she is no longer   grace and beauty.  She is   textured edges and tangled roots  she unravels  herself  before him...

Oh! Vexed candle—you!  What sorrows you look into?  With your crimson heart turning blue,  Like my wounds were of you.    As a flaming soul in an oyster's shell,  In the silent wisps of air, you dwell.  Sculpting your masthead with the turn—  As you burn! As we burn!    Of the rainbow! Of the...

Words—they come out—a blazing golden  Showering refulgence upon this night Out from the winter’s waning crescent— An altering air of mystery.  In pebbled syllables—tossing and rippling,  Trembling and flirting— And constantly vibrating Upon this heart they merrily flow.   Freshly coated—some pink upon pink  Jewelry—or a painting itself  Resting upon the innocent face  A portal to the...

I rolled the cigarette paper between my thumb and forefinger, as the Wild West blew dust and ashtray memories into my mouth. My teeth crunched on gritty rocks,  eroded by tides of passing centuries  into desert sand. The film coated my gums and my tongue rolled over a jagged molar, like...

The breath of spring births blossoms and young love. A thief of frost: she tongues each valley and kisses lips of dandelions.   Watching is the weakened widow who spies upon the mating birds. The blood-red berries, succulent and bare,  are plucked off one by one.   The lovers prance outside her home  lungs bathing in the lilac...