You hear the creak of the metal gate behind you, the echoing clang as it closes, but you don’t look back. The Things have caught up to us, left us drawing erratic breath under a stormy sky, standing at the edge of somewhere we don’t quite recognize.

The dunes. The distinctive smell hits us first, its sharpness invoking the spiky dune grass. We walk between clumps, each point penetrating our jeans, the skin on the back of our hands, demanding attention.


Forty-Five Minutes in Venice Beach

A large man wearing a black t-shirt that reads in block white lettering:  “I’m here to fuck shit up and leave” lounges on a cement bench. It wraps around the base of a palm tree guarding a mound of grass the size of a suburban front lawn. This is hot for October. The city sweats…

Free Pile, Brown House at the End of the Road

Everything free! Teddy bears, an alarm clock with real numbers that turn on wheels, four fireplace matches in a disintegrating box, a dozen dog-eared math workbooks. One hundred titty twisters, a thousand pokes to a prepubescent chest, fifty noogies, three attempted swirlies. Come get them, before they’re gone! A plastic trike. A bicycle with wooden…

Tuula's shadow on a barn

Eclipses Many

When you sleep in a very old barn, roll out early in the morning, and it’s very cold but the wood looks so warm, that’s a selfieclipse. When you are a crusty farmer growing 500 acres of alfalfa in the middle of the desert, and you go to bed before sunset and wake up before…


Somewhere in the closets of our minds, we all idolize this man. The rebel. The free agent. The one we lets noone tell him what to do. Rules are rules, but when they need to be broken, we call it resistance. When the system no longer serves its purpose, we must pull out our metaphorical…