by RICHARD LEISE IMG_0418 by Abigail Batchelder | Flickr A toddler falls from a balcony. It takes a moment—there is no commotion, no gathering crowd; there is, after looking up, no sound—but in time (you slowly walk closer until, incredibly, you make out impossible human features, a leg uncertainly angled) you realize that the girl isn’t a garbage bag, that she isn’t a pile of clothing and that, somehow, there, on the sidewalk, like a cat struck by a car, is a child, and not just any child, but that little girl who waves every morning on your walk to work. That she’s alive? This doesn’t cross your mind. Earlier. |
by LEAH MUELLER
by KEITH FRADY
by BOB SHAR
by ALYA DEMINA
by LEAH MUELLER
by CHRIS DIGIORGIO
by DAN TREMAGLIO
She wanted to write a song. She did not want to write a song. She loved music and how it made her feel and was born to write and play it. She might have been tone deaf. She never felt more alive than when performing in front of people. She was often terrified and never far from bed. She did not own an alarm clock because
she could open her eyes at any exact minute and more often passed the entire night pacing the villa of her imagination in the nude and moonlight. by JOE BONGIORNO
by GLENN A. BRUCE
by L. MACK
by SARAH BARKER
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Cleaners / Christian Heilmann / Flickr
Monthly Archives
February 2021
© Intrinsick 2015-2020
ISSN 2475-2525
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