Compassion Fatigue

Though fascist-like, it was only because of her mother's idiosyncratic serving style that she could roughly track the course of the evening. She’s sure it happened sometime between caviar baskets and pâté de canard sandwiches.


I’m stealing cough syrup and size-six gel insoles. Appropriate clothing is necessary. Insoles in the jacket. Robitussen in the backpack. The weight of these things in the clothes. They pull me down a little. Closer to the earth. I’m not a thrill seeker and I’m no role model. I seek only an equilibrium.

Flock Apart

The boiler was an oven, three stories high, tiled inside with innumerable iron plates. It incinerated bark and limbs and waste wood to power the generators that ran the paper mill, burning twenty-four-seven, except when, like that afternoon twenty years ago, it needed to be overhauled. That’s when they fed people like Mo and me into the boiler.