A journal of narrative writing.
Why Boys Do Not Camp Out Alone

The wind knows the tune to every murder ballad and plays them through branches thin as banjo strings. Each morning, a pile of pale stones forms a pyramid on the belly of the town’s most recent grave. All day, children carry them away one at a time, hide them in pockets, throw them at windows or runaway dogs, but the next morning they rest on a new grave. Because ears pressed to bare earth too long turn the cries of the long-buried into words, the stories no one wants to talk about or hear. Because the widow next door sleeps below an open window. She owns a record that sings like voices lost in a cave and some nights she listens to it over and over, cups of elderberry tea cooling in tired hands. Moths pressed to the screens of still-lit windows could be the deadly flies of southern continents if your hold relaxes, lets you forget your dreams of slow beasts rising to stalk the fragile prey sleepers become.