Your kayak, a hollow yellow crayon, slides past, tickle of eel grass, gentle current, your life in its hull.
“Okay, vote. Who really thinks Bruce Springsteen is working in the back?”
A world of possibilities folded itself up, collapsed, vanished.
It was her first day, and she wasn’t sure she was going to like it.
Silver Girl is not escapism—it is the fictionalization of real-life.
When the yellow car hit us, it hit us like a kiss and pulled back slowly.
In a way that may be reminiscent of the loving spirit one would bring to a Dead show, Housley treats every character as an emotional being.
That paperweight breaks my heart, because I identify with it—I feel like a blue flower immobilized in heavy glass.
Now we’ll grow gills, the small child says. We feel for our earlobes and pull them into new shapes.
This island is not what a typical person would think when you say Island for this island is man-made in its entirety.