atlas

Everything aches. The arches of her feet, her shins, hamstrings, lower back, ribcage, throat, triceps, biceps, even her wrists. Muscles flexed, mind focused, her arms twisted behind her, she grips the Earth. She never stops. This is how I imagine her.

on the Greyhound

The destination didn't matter. The origin was hardly worth remembering. It was over, she decided. She was done. Onto the next, wherever that might be.

in the evening

Collar popped, top two buttons undone, tie hanging loosely around his neck, Jeff poured a healthy dose of Johnny Walker Black into a glass. Two ice cubes. It had been a particularly hard day. As he sat back in his chair, he thought about the work he left scattered in barely discernible piles on his … Continue reading in the evening