It’s Only Broken Glass…Right?!

So I have a piece up at Micro 100.  You can find it here:

The story behind this poem is that I originally wrote it to say, “and sweet little girls fold up/ so nicely inside of suitcases.”  This was days before they found Sandra Cantu’s body inside of a suitcase, and you can only imagine the horror that I felt.  I quickly changed it.  I don’t want to go slogging through that ugliness.

Speaking of horror, it’s 84 degrees inside of my house right now.  While we’re sweltering prettily, I’m acutely aware that it is now cockroach season.  The last time that I went running, I tried to convince myself that the crunching under my feet was only broken glass.  There’s no place like home; there’s no place like home.

I submitted three more pieces.  Also, I sent a query letter last night, and I’ve committed to two more by Wednesday.  Slowly yet surely, we roll on.


Pieces out: 33

Goal: 40

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