Miss Ferguson doesn’t mind me smoking, its aroma reminding her of her dead father, and tells me my surly expression, which I nurture, spoils my looks as I sense her warming to me. Being too young to attract girlfriends is my saving grace in her eyes.… more
Writer: Ian C Smith
Song as Epitaph
CREATIVE NONFICTION by Ian C SmithHe came to know home was about time, not place. Before saying goodbye, his slippage stark, The Thinker with Rodin’s muscle wasted, eyes sad when not closed, close to warm blood and nerves’ end, he hoarsely spoke of that girl.… more
