Twice a year I made the two-hour drive to visit my hometown. Each time, I took a detour to the snake breeder’s house. The streetlight directly in front of the house draped a warm yellow glow over my silver hatchback, which idled its low hum while I sat and stared.
A fun but totally fucked up haiku over at The Daily Drunk
I don’t know what to do with my hands as I stand at the door waiting to meet my idol: the legendary writer Phillip Herns. A flash fiction piece over at Daily Drunk Mag.
The house was ours, not Harry’s. But every night he’d show up just the same: dirty bare feet; bruised shins; a Band-Aid on his knee covering an ever-present wound; white shirt and grey knee-length pants several sizes too small. His…
“Until the year 2039, the streets were lined with what were called telegraph poles,” the voice says dryly, as an image of several thick wooden trunks connected by straight black wires displays on screen. Read the full story at Free Flash…