dennis scharnberg

…then, suddenly, it all disintegrates into a fine pale dust and is blown away in the slightest breeze.

Pryce Cummings,  Rattle Box.

Down the hall, in a pool of light, there hung a painting.  A portrait.  A self-portrait of Lindsay, looking like the tadpole he always had been.

Corinna Sparks,  Turning to Stone.