Stories

The first whispers I heard concerning Louis le Palme’s Ruins of the Sun arrived just hours before the film’s first and, as far as I have been able to determine, only screening.

Car broke down. Too much dust in the engine, I dunno. Wheels kept kicking up land all the way through California & eventually the car sputtered and died.

In the pen I eat anything in front of me. I eat pellets and hay, I eat tails and dirt.

Everybody at her wife’s family reunion had too much to say about babies to talk to Wren.

Mike’s getting pretty good shots. The composition’s solid, with the street spinning out into the distant desert.

Greg took off his sweat-stained Blue Dicks hat and wiped his brow with his forearm. That goddamn song.

“Fuck,” the Con Artist said. The stack of fake IDs he’d been holding flew wild, into the dirt, lamination gleaming in the mid-morning sun.