Category: Portraits

Words can paint, each letter, a bristle of a brush. The sentence becomes a stroke. Paragraphs shape objects. A portrait needs no beginning, middle, or end. When we look deep at a painting, we can’t help but wonder why the Mona Lisa smiles. If you look deep enough at portraits, close enough to pick out desire, they jump out of the frame. The frame is the story. Break out! Break out!

Alice

She sets a folded towel upon cool sheets, her ass makes a depression on the mattress. Silence is never a full-proof method of understanding each other, even if hands are involved. They touch, then they talk. Talking is never a full-proof method of… His…

Tough Daylight

Chiado District, Lisbon Portugal, May 2019. (Click on image to enlarge.)     More images can be found here.  

Lone

Click on image to enlarge. Lisbon Portugal, May 2019     (An Elan longread available here.)

Ripple

Branches, once a small bridge, lie over missing mud, lose their original meaning. Now, a hard turf sits like a soft concrete, an uneven glaze dried upon them. The branches are caked, bricks in dirt, an ancient architecture. I see the trail, in its…

Water Wars

Reservoir #5 Click on image to enlarge. More images found here.      

Pumpkin And Mice

She’s cold. She steals a shirt. pulling it over her body, glazed in sweat, half dry, half oily. No one will touch her, not even herself. She’s attracted to a sweatshirt hanging on a rafter, yanking on it with her arms high in the…

The Harvester and the Crone

He was an old orchard, still in the shape of rows. But time had scattered his buzzing and his feet made noise upon layers of fallen twigs. Still, he searched, moved with purposeful steps, noise and all. She knew he would find her. He…

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