January, 2010
Hair Receiver
I hear the creak of my mother’s dresser drawers withdrawing. Our house’s center of gravity rests where she gets dressed,
Uncle Daddy
The dusty yard feels cool, though the day has been unseasonably warm. On the far side of the rusted chain-link fence trots a dirty white dog, some mangy stray. Its shadow is long in the setting sun’s light.
Pussy (An Explanation)
Deer season of ’86 and our manager, Baxter, walks out of the walk-in freezer wielding a machete, his white smock soaked in deer blood and his little mustache frozen at the tips. He says, “Kilroy, if you’re not out back in five seconds, you’re fired.”
The Character Who Came To Life
I’m a thief. I steal stories. I’m not proud of the fact, though it is something most fiction writers do. If it isn’t nailed down by copyright, we’ll use it. Any resemblance to actual persons is coincidental. Art imitates Life and all that. But there are times when Life reasserts itself, and things get a little more complicated.
