Tadpole Press

I don't like to tell you this but when I cross the line I see you there too waiting, daring me with your bedazzled eyes of sapphire           to take the final step until I am wholly submerged

I dropped the onesie I was folding when the ad popped up. Microfiction. Two hundred and fifty words. Two days to write. Prompts. A writing competition? How strange, how thrilling, how intimidating!

they asked me what I'll write as if I could define such a thing as if the halls weren't covered in moss and brimstone the mountains weren't faded with fog and mirrors

some things, I've decided, are better left as fossils crumpled, shaken things you never would have said

the heat that came in waves throughout our homes, our feet, our minds sizzled like slugs caught on the drying, moth-eaten rind

it's the place where lost memories go to die to be reborn and maybe circle back around and around twice or thrice until we forget which side was up where fact left off and fiction gained and truth became the thorn

they say you're only lonesome when it rains something about the gods weeping but I don't think that's true

These tiny poems are freeing because they don't have to make sense. What does it mean to be a gleam in a buffalo's eye? What does it mean to be yesterday? Or a Saturday? What if whatever you wrote made perfect sense and no sense at all?

The keeper of the keys of time had watched over the kingdom longer than time itself. He walked the lands at night, checking every door. What

I started writing this blog, Living a Life Imagined, over 7 years ago. I heard that's the amount of time it takes our bodies to regenerate n

It's never too early and it's never too late to start following your dreams. It's always the perfect time.