Les Marches VIII

Lifeless lifelike faces, molded plaster souls, inextricably linked by lamplight and littered street corners.

Les Marches VII

Fragments of archaic chandeliers drift in pewter bowls, glistening like fish scale soup. Trampled aristocracy served on platters to pinched and pickled tourists.

Les Marches VI

He peddles ancient vinyl and fossilized dreams of becoming a rockstar. Cavalier, giving hope to pimpled preteens with studded leather, he winks his eye through leathered skin.

Les Marches V

School children, fresh from a misadventure, served on ice.

Les Marches IV

Her arm, damaged by a sports injury, jerked awkwardly as she stood naked surveying her haul; antiques and dusty prints she had stolen off the back of a pickup truck. She felt out of place amongst these souvenirs from civilized society.

Les Marches III

I bite into the oozing fruit, nothing like the cookies of my childhood had led me to believe.  It held in its being the texture and taste of a first kiss, urging me to put my lips to it once more.

Les Marches II

In a threadbare overcoat he fingers each spool.  Every color reminds him of a time when his wardrobe was for fashion and not warmth, when he spent his days on benches instead of his nights.

Les Marches I

Prehistoric feet and pimpled skin. Chefs look the food in the eye to learn its taste, to know how it will feel to tongues once crisped, oil shinning brown on its once pink skin.  Candles flicker in the restaurant din.

Northern Ireland III

“Remember. There are two Irelands. There will always be two Irelands. I’ve done some things I wouldn’t do again.”

Northern Ireland II

Running. Child’s play, reflecting a bitter war. A torn soul and country. Children. Playing war. Playing.