Brooke L. Davis

The written word is dying. Pencil or pen, paper. Archives crumble to dust and disintegrate alone in the stack of old libraries. The...

The masses rush, a school of fish in a stream, into the rush of water as it cascades away into the future. The dart from side to side,...

Its always darkest in suburbia. Metal sentries stare through clear lenses, guarding postage stamp cookie cutter cracker boxes. False...

What happens when the circuitry of the mind grow dim? Delicate filaments become unmoored and float restlessly like grasping tentacles,...

The city rises like spikes on a polygraph, steel, granite, concrete piercing gray clouds like needles. Far below, spokes in the American...

Everyday she writes the book, adding days, years, memories until pages can no longer contain her. Now, like a mystical being she takes...