by Tyra Davis

Life is lived in stages. Intellectually, she knew that, but could never wrap her emotions around the concept. At the moment, her own life was in a stage of underdevelopment, like a construction site in a snow storm. Forced to wait it out, she passed the days through several packs of cigarettes and dirty coffee mugs. The windows in her apartment were caked with unsettled air as, by now, were her lungs, but she could not lift herself from failure. Instead, she accepted the idea of death and sketched out her funeral between puffs.


Tyra Davis lives in New York City. Writing is her dirty little secret.

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