The plaque on Andrew’s lap hummed, its runes flickering invitation, and the boy dropped his eyes from the strangely familiar face flickering beside him as if in dappled shadow, drawing them back down to the characters carved in the cool, muddy brass; he touched the runes with burnt fingers and pursed his lips to pronounce them out loud. Continue reading
Her items had all been checked through, the sums totaled, and the careful order in which she’d placed the items on the belt little more than a memory.
The pony-tailed casher with the overabundant bangs snapped her gum behind her plastic face shield. “Got any coupons?” Continue reading
The storage closet was packed with slides, cellulose family movies, and photo albums (these last, at least, were sorted and labeled). Continue reading
The Persistence of Memory – S. Dali
The attic is hot, dust motes knife-sharp and glittering in dim light through a window that wouldn’t budge in the humidity. She had to find that old photo, and prove her point. This rewriting of history to benefit Joseph had gone on far too long. Continue reading
Elbows on bent knees,
Hands dangle between, wings on a gentle-breezed bird.
Butt planted, chilly on Autumnal Earth.
Grass spent, golden and crackling
Under a sky sharp as blue porcelain.
Leaves flicker down from balding trees,
The memories still, cut deep.
Music, art and performance around Minnesota
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fiction and reflections by Margaret Sefton
Valley of the Trolls 