An Embrace

Long held
Our star,
In main
Will burn
For another
Five billion
And at that time,
A roiling
Swollen from
Of elements
It will
The last trace
Of us,
The dust that
Knit the lattice
Of our form,
And welcome
Us home.


“Tom’s truck slowed and then stopped on the side of the road near where Marilyn and Henry stood.

“Fuck.” He said through gritted teeth as he raised a hand in greeting. Tom climbed out of his truck and waved back, then started across the field toward him. Henry busied himself during the brief walk Tom made across the field from the road. It would be too awkward standing there watching him get closer. He’d be too angry, too. He gave the plow a visual once over, looking for any damage from being tossed. Nothing seemed amiss. He started to walk around the front of Marilyn, who reared again and scraped at the ground with one foot. Henry suspected she could pick up on his emotions and could feel his animosity toward Tom. Or maybe Tom had been messing around his barn as he suspected and gave her reason to be nervous. He spotted a large black rock jutting up from a rut in the earth and turned it over with his foot. He was staring down at it when Tom approached.

“Hey, Hen.” Tom called him this regularly. Henry hated it. He did not look up.

“Hello, Tom.” He said it distractedly, still trying to make sense of what he saw.

“Just passed your boy on his way to school. He looked mighty out of sorts. All well over here?”

Henry still hadn’t looked up at the man who he suspected had something to do with the fuckery his livestock had been put through recently. He shook his head slowly. He got feelings about people from time to time, and when old Tom died and his land went to Tom Jr., a hard lump formed at the base of his throat he could never quite shake. Long nights he debated whether what he felt was right or if the death of Addie had pushed him over into some form of insanity still undiscovered by shrinks and fools. Things had been hard, no doubt, but he felt he and the boy had come through it relatively alright. He kept his scars in shadow for the most part, not allowing mortal eyes to see them.

“No, Tom, it ain’t well” He threw a bit too much salt on that last word but didn’t feel bad about it. In fact, it felt good to let Tom know he wasn’t a pushover, even if it was in a passive way.

Tom took a step back and put his hands up in mock surrender.

“Alright, now Hen, no need to take a tone, I was just inquirin’ on account of the state of your boy. He was a right mess. Dirt everywhere an –“

“I think you know damn well what transpired here. You been sniffin’ around my barn and now we lost Mag. I think the two are related.”

For the first time Henry lifted his head and gave Tom a hard look. He’d laid it all on the table for good or naught. His thoughts drifted to Sam and how this would all affect him. Fear crept up behind his eyes and Tom saw it. His lip curled in an expression of amusement tinged with contempt. The old man had the balls to call him out on his misdoings but wasn’t in any condition to back it up with action. Tom dropped his hands and took two strides toward Henry, a malicious chuckle trickling from his mouth. He spat on the ground and started to move between Henry and Marilyn, uncomfortably close to Henry’s face. Tom tensed his jaw and spoke in low tones that were spiked with a hint of mirth.

“I told ya’ll I’d have your land.” He spat. “Ain’t natural for your kind to own land. It’s a waste.” Henry was no stranger to having people talk this way to him, and it came as less of a surprise from a man like Tom.

“I made a fair offer. When you refused, I tried another tack. How long you think this ass here got left in her? And then what? What’ll you buy new mules with, Hen? Your good looks? Fuck.”

He began to laugh. The tension stiffened Henry’s shoulders and Tom’s laughter reverberated through him, making his sore shoulder throb and ache. It reverberated through Marilyn too, who brayed and reared up again, the too close stranger and the emotions she felt from Henry culminating in protest.

The motion of the mule knocked Tom into Henry hard. Tom took it as an opportunity and when he regained his balance swung and hit Henry square on the jaw, knocking him back into freshly turned dirt and manure. The shock and pain made Henry vomit a bit and he spat a mouthful of that morning’s breakfast into the soil beside him. Tom straddled him, pulling his arm back again meaning to finish the job. Henry felt around for that strange rock he’d unearthed and hefted it in one hand. It was way heavier than a rock of its size ought to be, but that served Henry fine. He swung it up at Tom’s face and closed his eyes. He’d done half a day’s work and his shoulder screamed in protest, but the hit was forceful enough and made a sickening sound.

Tom crumpled in a heap, head cocked awkwardly against Marilyn’s front legs, his arms hanging limply at his side, all the fight gone out of him. Marilyn stumbled slightly at the dead weight knocked against her and shifted sideways, letting Tom fall flat underneath her. Henry feared the worst. He stared for a good minute at Tom’s chest, willing the familiar rise and fall of breathing to return, but he was gone. God forgive him, he had killed Tom Bradford.”

This is an excerpt of the short story “Miracles” appearing in Sylacauga, an anthology of short fiction and poetry surrounding the meteor event in Sylacauga, Alabama in 1954. out now on Amazon .


Thanks to your readership, Disremembering is now #1 in the Poetry About Nature category on Amazon! Thank you so much for your continued support of my artistic endevours! It means the world to me!

You can still get a copy free through Friday 12/23 HERE


I’ve started a new account at Mastodon! Make sure to add me there if you have an account! If you don’t, I highly suggest making one. It’s an amazing environment for artists of all types and far better than Twitter. It offers the same microblogging experience without ads! The future is the fediverse!


Sylacauga is an anthology of poetry, speculative fiction, and horror based around the 1954 meteor event over Sylacauga, Alabama. You can now purchase a copy now on Amazon: HERE

Sylacauga features poetry by Leah McNaughton Lederman and Stefani Manard and short stories by David Brown, Christopher Charlton, Stan Konopka, Tracy Konopka, Shelly Van Allen and Myself. Cover art by Matt Soffe!

An Epitaph

Will the earth

With my bones


Find the marrow


Will the grey

Veined clay

Gather in the


Will the stones


Carried in the water

In rivulets

With the weight of

Evaporated eons.

In red, roaring wastes,

Will the water wait?

Carving earth in

Mountain and canyon,

What will it make

Of the hollow things that

Once held this shape?

When scattered

Will I finally

Be lovely?

Will I finally be

Comely when


A promise

Like feathers,

Like lead

Cradled in

The trembling

Of existence.

The ache


And silenced

In silt.

MJGS 3/2/22


Moss covered stone

Sun beckoned

The snow runs off,

Stays in shadow.

Petrichor and


Its said to

Follow beauty,

But forgets.

Swift water flows,

Slows at the bend

In the middle frozen

Hand outstretched

Hard pack and


Veins of quartz

Veins of clay

Dust and ash

Pockmarked with

Grinding rock

Laden and vacant

A thousand years.

Shot rock

In granite

In agate

In aggregate.

Pine needles

In a panic.

Wind summoned.

The sun sets

And fills pockets



Seethes against


Long strides

And echo

Against cliff face.

Falling and fallen

Pebbles and ember.

Oxygen fed and

Carbon starved

Stars burn and





Soften the


Ladies of Horror – November

Jack’s Regret
by Michelle Joy Gallagher

“Jack hadn’t slept since he drowned Elise. He hadn’t set out to hurt her. She’d just said so many things that wounded him in short order, leaving him no time to recover. The passion and fire in her that first drew his eye quickly left him burned. It left no working patience in him. They had been walking along the shore when she’d brought up Beatrice. Beatrice. Why had he ever given her the time of day?”

Read the rest here