TO READ
DEATH
OF THE
AUTHOR
art and love and artists in love / 2.7k words / 2023
I need to confess something to you.
That is, writing is a deeply confessional act. Writers confess something and readers consume it. Readers annihilate it. That’s our deal.
The confession might be a lie disguised as the truth, of course, or the truth disguised as a lie. And if I write a story about a murderer, is the confession that I dream of killing or that I dream of being killed? Or is it just that I dream of being that close to someone, the way two bodies are when one has a knife against the other’s throat?
FISH II
elaborate ruse to share fun facts about fish / 3.2k words / 2023
If the world stopped spinning tomorrow. If you were beautiful, if I were beautiful, if no one was. If I could invite anyone who’s ever lived to dinner for just one night, if I found myself in a hole and I kept digging, or if I stopped digging, if I could walk on water, if I could speak any language, if I could bring three things to a deserted island, if the timing was always right, or if it was never right. If I see you tomorrow I’ll tell you about fish. I spent all last night reading on them.
CHASING
ACROBATS
god is dead and the angels are leaving vienna / 3.3k / 2024
You can try to run from divinity all you’d like, Cassius had told me once, but it’s difficult to run from your own bones. Your own blood, your own teeth. (Is it the same thing? I had asked him. Running from divinity and
running from Vienna? I don’t know. Maybe it is the same thing. That is to say, it is to a degree, but perhaps divinity is such that it cannot be split into parts, only taken or left in absolutes.)
It’s a white lie—to tell the complete truth, I was ten years old the first time I met God. I drank his blood and threw it up outside the church following the mass. I still don’t know the answer. (Which aspect of it was intolerable to me? The violence or the divinity?)
God and I have come to more of an understanding since then.
GOD AND OTHER PEOPLE I MET IN
HIGH SCHOOL
2.6k / 2025