“No Soul”

•January 19, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Advertisements

•January 19, 2012 • Leave a Comment

“Moonlight Sonata”

•January 19, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Asymmetrical Symmetry

•January 19, 2012 • Leave a Comment

Summer Fun

•January 17, 2012 • 2 Comments

10-Minute Flash Fiction Exercise #2: Love

•September 25, 2011 • Leave a Comment

I wanted to throw up. I could taste it behind my teeth, acidic, starched half-digested confetti. I help the ring in one hand, pressed as far down into my pocket as it could go. The diamond was beginning to impress upon my leg, burrowing a web into the flesh. When you’re sick, you tell yourself “if I could just vomit and get it over with, I’d feel so much better.” That’s how it felt. I knew what the answer would be—there wasn’t any doubt in my mind. Still. Chunks swimming, cycloning against my stomach lining, forcing the symptoms: an arrhythmia; sweaty palms; a vague complexion of a red-nosed drunkard barely upright after a full night of self-flagellation and exquisite sexploitation.

But I knew what she’d say. I knew it and I wanted it and I didn’t and I was scared halfway to fuck it all I’m getting back on a plane and heading home and you can’t stop me and I’ll never ever look back.

And I wanted to expel everything inside of me, turn myself inside out and start with the hidden exposed—vulnerable, open, but in control. No more secrets, no further surprises.

Just. Trust.

And I was going to throw up. If I didn’t chance it, I knew what I’d do: I’d go home, stick my head in a toilet, and never come out again.

10-Minute Flash Fiction Exercise #1: Loss

•September 25, 2011 • Leave a Comment

He walks into the kitchen and scans the cupboard, looking for the bread, the tuna, the mayonnaise, everything she would put on his sandwich. He finds the bread and nothing else. He pulls out a slice, bites into it, holds it in his mouth until the white Wonder sucks up his saliva like a sponge. The brown diamond tile beneath his feet is soft with a week’s worth of dust, barely disturbed, a low residual fog. He scuffs his heels as he walks, the sound of his toes on the ground louder than he seems to recall. Everything is louder—no one watches Midday anymore, no one watching anything while no one makes his lunch and no one vacuums the carpet and sweeps the floor and wipes the windows while chatting up Edith next door—oh those kids, how old are yours now? when do they start at Sam Livingston? how’s your youngest? oh really, still staring straight up wherever he goes, that’s just fantastic. He’s unable to look at the impression in the orange shag carpet in front of the television, where she would sit and hold him as she watched her programs and he watched her. He retreats to the basement, thumping to the bottom of the Halloween-striped stairwell two at a time. He leaves the light off at the bottom and follows the scent of plaster and acrylic paint, dropping to his hands and knees and moving to the farthest corner of the basement, beneath the train set his brother and father spent years putting together, without him, without his help. They told him to stay away, not to interfere, but the detail fascinated him and he couldn’t help himself. She’d always protected him, told them that he just wanted to fit. Now he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Ever. She wouldn’t be there to save him again.