him, stole the breath from his lungs. Hateful words clung with
barbed hooks to his lips, his throat. But the hurricane force was not enough to
had first ignited in his face and later immolated his guts. His soul,
seared open by white-hot coals of rage, could not begin to vaporize...
his tears rushing forth, rivers of sorrow that poured into a vast sea
of despair. The ocean could not cushion him from...
The earth that grew ever larger, dirt and stone yearning to forever embrace flesh
Kurt Hohmann (www.kurthohmann.com)
tells stories, builds altars to pagan gods,
drums 'round the bonfire, and crafts mad culinary experiments. He shares a home
in the wild snowy lands of central New York with his wife, two living cats, at
least six feline ghosts, and one rather affectionate python. His tales have
been featured in Commuter Lit, Aphelion, Half Hour to Kill, Yellow Mama,
Literally Stories, Dark Fire, Bookends Review, and Eternal Haunted Summer.