Ellis Cahill
Stories (2)
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The Tenant
The tenant in the room of my skull is not a burden, but a revelation, but an aspiring birdwatcher in a plaid, body-scented shirt, and high pants, walking with a notched cherrywood cane toward the room’s only window. (The room’s only window is only a window from the outside-looking-in. From the inside-looking-out, it is a mirror.) (And if every story ever told is true, then someday the mirror will become a window. And the window will become a door. And then that door will open.)
By Ellis Cahill9 months ago in Poets
Pollination of A Fig
The dense forest gives way to a circle-stage of open meadow. Yellow sunrays flood the grass before her like a spotlight. Her air leaves in a whoosh and she folds hands-to-knees, her dirt-streaked palms brace on red and wounded legs. She winces with a sting of pain.
By Ellis Cahill4 years ago in Fiction
