Joe shuffles to water’s edge to see the sunset. He’s retired, widowed, nearly broke.
A pastel sky bleeds away into twilight, into grayscale, into an impossible inkiness.
He’s alone, except for the loons who call out from the terrible void. Joe suddenly understands what they’re saying but doesn’t dare answer.
Hawkelson Rainier lives in the American Midwest. He dabbles in prose and poetry from time to time.
<p>For centuries, sailors crossing the Atlantic believed
<p>At a glance, the fall of <a
<p>The Vikings were bearded, brutish, spoiling for
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Joe shuffles to water’s edge to see the sunset. He’s retired, widowed, nearly broke.
A pastel sky bleeds away into twilight, into grayscale, into an impossible inkiness.
He’s alone, except for the loons who call out from the terrible void. Joe suddenly understands what they’re saying but doesn’t dare answer.
Hawkelson Rainier lives in the American Midwest. He dabbles in prose and poetry from time to time.
<p>For centuries, sailors crossing the Atlantic believed
<p>At a glance, the fall of <a
<p>The Vikings were bearded, brutish, spoiling for
Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.
