Pigwen didn’t set out to be evil. Despite her goblin nature, her original intention had simply been to survive. Being cast out of the mountain had been an ugly blow, but between the obscene amount of gold and the unsettling respect the humans seemed to be developing, plans had changed. Life that had once been centered around survival had shifted focus. Now, power was the name of the game. Of course, power required making decisions. Pigwen didn’t care much for that. No, Pigwe

To me, she was celestial Eloquently a terrestrial Alienating me from humanity with just a flick Mutating me from profanity with one nick So I’d sprint to her charm Just to imagine us without harm Chain adorned knives wrap psychotically around Brains bind the lives that develop dichotomies of sound Differences of benevolence The independents begging dependence Clashing in conflict as two’s wants strike the other's needs A knife so sharp it brings the strongest man to his knees

The school bell rings, memories jolt in; Roaring laughter, shushes in between, Faded portraits hold secrets within. Time’s gentle touch, unravelling seams.  The familiar scent of old books, The braying of rusted swings, Big backpacks carrying even bigger dreams. A worn out shirt, a gift from a loved one, Broken toys, smashed pinatas, The warmth of a hug is as sweet as pie. From grand celebrations to tender grievances, Mischief still lingers in forgotten corners.   Beneath eve

I peel an orange the way my mother used to pray slowly, thumb pressed against the skin,  each tear a small confession. The first time she raised a blade toward me,  her calluses flushed raw and pink,  promising that mine too  would someday crack and harden. She used to loop her fingers around my wrist,  thumb and index pressed together in a kiss,  seating me on the cold floor.  No prayer; just her breath, thick with citrus and cardamom. Through the cavern of her arms, she dre

There is an active tennis court beside the one-lane road. As you walk past the court, by the empty baseball field and overcrowded parking, you reach a tiny playground. Hidden towards the side of the playground, past the swings, forward from an abandoned grill, is the entrance to Cabin John Trail. Down you walk, through steep terrain, on loose, creaking wooden steps, to the creek.  There is a table where a father sits, watching his dog dirty itself in the creek. You hear the s