Dying Men, and Growing Trees A collection of recollections (mostly) By: C. B. Smith “It’s obviously impossible to take both roads. It’s only through artistic liberty that one can claim to know both destinations.
A Slack Sixteenth By: C. B. Smith My childhood imagination was always backdropped by fantastical worlds within which I needed to survive. Places plagued by aliens or monsters at my youngest, by war and nuclear apocalypse as I grew.
Better I laugh politely and then look down, staring at my feet, extending the exhale at the end of my laugh and then letting silence settle. I had things that could be said; I simply had no desire to speak them, I let the