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WHILST Magazine

Cloves

“It’s the beginning of the end,” she says. Graduation lurks beyond, but tonight, we read our poetry, our stories aloud to a hushed audience, close and still in the dim-lit theater. As we speak, the brilliant lights obscure our vision. We can’t see the faces, but when we step down…
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House

House, terra-cotta tiled dropped in a hillside a Spanish hobbit hole for my upbringing brainwashing, house   now, to visit to pull my spirit north and through the haunting hologram visions of the child-me dense, profligate with memory on every pristine street of Santa Barbara I return to wade through…
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