by Centaur Lit | Aug 2, 2026 | Summer 2026
A man had an eye for what was overlooked. He brought home what he found. A hummingbird’s nest! A shell from the desert! A piece of sea glass! He kept his findings in a cabinet of curiosities. When that was full, he began another, of puzzlings. A pair of wings from a...
by Centaur Lit | Aug 2, 2026 | Summer 2026
rain was always plentiful and the paddy fields were always flooded. The villagers would carry the entire crop home and boil it in giant silver vats fitted with sieves to separate liquid from solid and meticulously collect the rice-water to be left out overnight to...
by Centaur Lit | Aug 2, 2026 | Summer 2026
Justin is lying naked on the back lawn again. He does this on clear nights, buttocks pressed into grass, crickets chirruping their mating call on his mat of chest hair. I’m watching him from our open bedroom window, waiting for him to come lie with me, even though...
by Centaur Lit | Aug 2, 2026 | Summer 2026
All packed up then and in the car, just us two. The road out to the campsite wears thin and chafes with the whir of treetops gone by. A kissing canopy, a sheer of basalt stone in lieu of a guardrail. The signs are helpful. They say watch for deer. For the travelers...
by Centaur Lit | Aug 2, 2026 | Summer 2026
For some a bump means a baby, for my mother it meant a son—a son who found his words in high school and still has the pencil bump to prove it. For some a bump is a lipoma and in witches, the prerequisite wart; a bump, for some, is the gateway to euphoria, or a...
by Centaur Lit | Aug 2, 2026 | Summer 2026
When you were a child, I asked my mother, did you swim in a birdbath? Did the sun shine on you? Will you come back after you die and let us know what heaven is like? I asked my child self to pick a violet and hold it in her palm. I told her, you will be okay.She said,...