Micro-Fiction: The Love Child of H.G. Wells

Photograph by Aleathia Drehmer

Time moves slowly in the desert propelling me at half the speed of light without stealing the memory of time travel from my sun-bleached gray matter. In my state of disillusionment, I find my cold body in the same place I left it; my brain having traversed the expanse of a million years of untouchable land coveting layers of history I shall never have access to. I have to live with this knowledge tucked behind the soft curves of my ears, always whispering at high decibels absorbed by silence.

Poem: 100 Years Will Get You Nothing

This poem was previously published in print at the fabulous zine, Nibble.

Photo by Aleathia Drehmer

100 Years Will Get You Nothing

I blow my nose
standing topless in front
of the bathroom mirror,
after reading a poem
about an centenarian 
awaiting the revolution,
with my breasts lying flat
against my chest like that old man’s
dream of an uprising.  I struggle
with the box of tissues—
pull out too many and catch
a glimpse of my tired face
and even more tired body
and wonder exactly
what am I doing here?