Of what unutterable parlance

Do the bells blow?

Of what unkowable utterances

Does the wounded seraph murmur?

Does she have concern

Over the moonlight

Bleeding into the sky?

Or of her sisters strumming their viols

With a masquerade so lachrymose?

All whilst singing paeans

in the minor mode.

Does she feel the blows of drums?

The jeers of her heart?

White figures, praising

Their disquietness as...

See her.

Her, the girl who lives down the Pueblo.

The one whom each day

Drags the bucket from the well

The one who’s bandaged in the scullery clothes of her ancestors.

Her, of a wounded angel,

Who chants songs without words of folk long forgotten.

The sadness of her heart, masqueraded

By a look of fatigue.

Her heart lays crowded with the descendants of Cain

Blowing flutes and pounding dru...

Although now nothing can return,

The hours we have spent together,

I often catch myself begging to the Lord

For just another fleeting moment

In your presence, dear.

When you superfluously uttered,

“but why should it be me?”

All the while, great bliss

Spoke from your eyes,

As our passions mingled

Under the stars—

Murmuring secrets

to one another…

For a brief moment,

I truly thought we could ha...

He frenzied into their living room, knife balled in his fist. He looked directly into her eyes and she glanced back into his. He spoke, in a frantic tone.

“I just- I just killed someone!”

She narrowed his eyes at him, laughing nervously. "What do you mean you've killed someone?"

"I'm dead serious, babe. We need to get moving. Pack your bags."

“Jesus, Andres. I knew you were insane, but now I don’...

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done; on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.”

The pastor spoke, and the organ sang its heavenly song whilst the Church sat. They all were blanketed i...

As the little bell rang to the sound of the creaking door, my ears filled with indiscernible chatter but for a single “Welcome miss!”. I stood in line for my usual coffee with a hint of milk. Ahead of me was a boy who couldn’t be more than seventeen whilst behind me was a fragile elderly lady. Around us; were frivolous couples and first dates, men on laptops, women sitting gracefully on their own,...

As he sat hunched on that weary stool cushion, the only place where one could sit backstage, he feverishly flipped through the pages of the score. He looked over every notation, every phrase, every pedal mark, every fingering. Beethoven’s spirit seemed as if it was gazing down upon him.

“So much hard work, so many sleepless nights,” he thought.

“yet still my heart is pounding so fast that I feel...