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My life could have been different but it wasn’t.
Fiction
Original short stories
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d. I saw one of her breasts when I was ten. We were celebrating 4th of July and she had caught a spark that flew into her bikini.
The Gun On the Bed
Danny wakes up with a gun on his bed. He doesn't know how it got there. It seems like a rare coincidence or a prize for a lucky man, a reckless and slapdash man. There's a woman on the bed, too. The gun lies between them. He asks her "what's your name and is this …
Close Your Eyes
She points to her mouth but doesn't say a word. He stands up and quietly puts his pants on. Then, she wakes up.
Yellow Teeth
In the rear-view mirror, my yellow teeth looked buttery. If I hadn't forgotten my cell phone, I'd leave myself a message to look into those new Crest strips I'd just seen advertised. I looked again: golden-retriever yellow. Fuck! I hit something. I slammed the brakes and squealed to a stop and then reversed. He was …
Butternut Squash
A little learning is a dangerous thing; Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring. -Alexander Pope, “Essay on Criticism” Looking at simple things in a cosmic way is the work of a poet. Accordingly, Thaddeus Edelstein made a point of keeping his eyes open. He wouldn’t want to miss the world in a grain …
MOM
The Jewish stockbroker I dated said facetiously, “I think the Ku Klux Klan sent you here to fuck all the Jews to death.”
Nome Sane
Uncle Shelby, Sippy Salvatore, Silent Edgar, Ramos the Bull God, Alejandro the Hammer, Peter the Wolf, The Ghost of Thom Jones, names by which my ilk are known or have been known, all. Name by which I go when I go at night from this place in the hills with my hollow prayer book in …
A Closed Field
Outside, the last sunlight in the world plays in the treetops, turns shimmering leaflets gold. Row upon row of dazzled green cornstalks reach up, blind, into the empty blue sky. A purple strip of road divides us. A shadowy figure, sack over his shoulder, follows his feet along the edge of the ditch. He stops …
Jiffy Popped Corn and Puppy Don’t Care
Helen Astley and Henry Stein lay cuddled together in bed with the lights off, munching Jiffy Pop, watching an old western flick, For a Few Dollars More. They were no longer each other’s lovers. Five years of hot and cold drama had left the two numb: frostbitten below, scorched in the head. Still, they enjoyed …