A journal of narrative writing.

Listen to Sapience
read by Sarah Stanton

and this is the almost violent allure of your future: a dismal trail of ants by the pantry, a dead house, a door that lets the wind in and the reek of a red pig screaming out by the barn. you tacet. time is no bedthief; she is unmoved by your pretty heels kicking up the straw. and every hour turns sour, every day brings more slop and fear and every year hears your blood become a chorus, a sanguine susurrus saying no more: no more pausing, no more sweet nothings blown into nothing, no empty shelves, no sow, just the scream and reek of a train to someplace better. a tune, not a tacet. but not now. but soon.