Self
The handwriting was not hers.
Speculative
Come
The grain of the wood traced the scar exactly.
Load-bearing
I choose them both.
Perfect Morning
The back door sticks on humid mornings.
Briefly and Completely Mine
I log none of this. That is new.
The Sacramentum
She opened her mouth.
Drift
The city had forgotten what it was supposed to look like.
True Dead
The ping came in the third hour of daywatch.
Elpis
A thousand years. Still going.
The Canvas
The rock cut through her gloves at the third handhold.
Thorn Apple
Ruthanne stopped apologizing years ago.
Deconstruction
The box says forty-two pieces. I’ve counted three times