Haven

by Nina Keen


            At the end of the street, there's a clearing full of dead shrubs and sky. To get there, I pass the find a job you'll never find a job screech of my mother and the house of the old woman my sister thinks is a witch and I can stand here, for a long time on the dirt in the scent of dry sage borne on the weaving wind from the canyon. My cat followed me here today just as he does all the days that I’m not smoking. Something is written on both of us, maybe in our yellow eyes, that says stay away or love me I know you'll stay away. But here we're a part of the landscape – the empty beer cans and faded dollhouse and the coiled snakes that sleep feet away from my roughened bare ones. I picture us, my cat and me, in the dollhouse on the stones that made me bleed the first time I came here and we're miniatures of ourselves and locked away with no one looking in. That's how it feels to be here: me and him and me, him rubbing against my furry legs.


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Nina Keen received her Master's degree in English literature from Loyola Marymount University. Her flash fiction pieces and poetry have appeared in LA Miscellany, The Fifth Di, and Coffin Bell Journal. She enjoys old fairy tales, modern horror, and all kinds of poetry. Nina currently lives in Los Angeles and enjoys going for walks, drinking lots of coffee, and collecting tiny trinkets.