Volume VIII, Issue II
..:: POETRY ::..
..:: PROSE ::..
Volume IV, Issue II
..:: ARCHIVES ::..
Volume I, Issue I
Volume I, Issue II
Volume II, Issue I
Volume II, Issue II
Volume III, Issue I
Volume III, Issue II
Volume IV, Issue I
Volume V, Issue I
Volume V, Issue II
Volume VI, Issue I
Volume VI, Issue II
Volume VII, Issue I
Volume VII, Issue II
Volume VIII, Issue I
Glenn R. Frantz
He unscrewed the night cottage. A rough overcoat. The electric rings in his hand's
pocket. It was a long gate to undertake. But the night began. It had begun to understand
that it was the questions that had brought him to me. He had a cab novel. His cab and he
had written to introduce to her happiness. It was already in sets of the misbehaving
libraries. The inside had a fine way of shifting fate. The word that was wanting in
bewilderment. A rare subject. But it was a niche. A miscarriage of expensive moods. It
was buried. But the buried concretion of accidents. It had come to her. She had gone to
me. I had gone to him. I had a visit to show him. A feeling of it was the case with her.
It was dead. But it had a postscript to enjoy. He heard the thoughts that she appeared to
finish. She had lots to listen to. It was success in spite of my reasons. I felt a sudden
bite of esoteric gratitude. A right to watch the door was a place to accept it. But the
broken ground of the sky and death. A duty that was a bad garden. He rang the rest.