Leanna Moxley spends most of her time wandering in and out of fictional dimensions, often guiding others through these portals in her work as a Powell’s bookseller, and sometimes as a college writing teacher.
My throat is riddled with holes for rocks to grow in, little white bits. You put your tongue in and I wonder, do you feel it? Can you slip between the filled up, crumbling, rank red cells? My throat is cryptic, dead things hidden in the moist dark. I put
I’m nine years old on July 31, 1996, when I write the evil queen dream in my diary, in pink pen on a pink-lined page with a heart and a bow in the corner: “A night or two ago I had a terrible dream. I dreamed I had gone to
On late summer afternoons, when the water gets real still the mermaids surface, the spines on their backs rising out of the lake. My brother says he’s gonna catch one, even prowls the shore with a hook he’s fashioned out of an old broom handle and some coat hangers. He
Soft leaves draped over clusters of long, brown seedpods. Thick spikes sprouted right from the trunk, some as long as my arm. I slipped my hand between these thorns and touched the bark. “What is this,” my friend Bird breathed, pulling loose a seedpod. She cracked it open; inside was