William Heyen

We kept building our steeples higher until emissions streamed to thousands of miles away, but distant lakes spit up frogspawn & . . . . Continue Reading »

As I was splitting a pair of queens to double my sawbuck bet, someone said “He’s here,” and here he was—four bodyguards to part the waves, a blonde bimbo on each arm with whom to swim. I swiveled in my chair to greet him, held out my hand—brushed back by one of his goons. . . . . Continue Reading »