flash fiction
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the cold came down nordic. each flake landing on its sibling, incrementally adding more depth to the blanketing whiteness. the only contradicting spots roads no one was traveling on. i know. It is my job to see. I am BiNoc, The Eye. Like the third, I see what is not visible. The horizon extends out…
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A six month hiatus and complicated alliterative lines derails my mind and sends me. A poet to my core, I read for sustenance and my home is the antithesis of a book desert. The other night I was disturbed in the middle of a line. Thrust upon until I recognized need. Frustration squared. Go away.…
Tichaona Chinyelu 