I fudge mystique. Flotillas of near-misses I avoided by the league. It is a crime to understate your absolute trust. To be numbed by joy in that way, I would give my entire nose. Whittle me perfect so I can bronze the thing. Where are you in my delusions? With any luck, I narrate you into diver cobbler or blacksmith, a village treasure. Behold—offstage, the forest crone spinning blind for no one.




Lake Tahoe exists only for romantic trips in movies but you keep mentioning it. The extant mock letters we write, as if a public knew how to live a conscious life before we did. If you’re from Lake Tahoe, somebody made you up and I’m telling. Yammering a sheaf more than I’d like—but the bees which miracle across the lake in the tale, I see on the lake in the real times. Nobody made that up to make me happy.

SAMANTHA BARES lives and works in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Her work has appeared in Cricket Online Review. She doesn’t believe in Lake Tahoe.