Tacked awkwardly onto the end of a long-unopened file, I just stumbled upon the first work of fiction I ever intended to write. I was twenty-one. It’s been a decade. I’m someone that twenty-one-year-old wouldn’t recognize; I might be someone he wouldn’t like. I know I wouldn’t care for him—I didn’t like . . . → Read More: Negative Space
As is evident from even a cursory examination of the post dates of this website, it’s been a while since I clicked digits on keyboard with the intention of creating or, as was the case this evening, put an actual pen to actual paper. And, as I’ve recently kvetched elsewhere about my lack of writing . . . → Read More: Presents
Earlier this year, Amoskeag Journal, out of New Hampshire, published my short story “[sic].” Recently, I had the good fortune to be deemed by their editors worthy of an interview and, should you so choose, you’ll be able to read that interview here, on January 8th—allegedly it will “go live” around noon.
Take, for instance, the three-minute introductory sequence of Busted Hub. A logy wipe like the cockeyed rising of Venetian blinds opens the film. Trevor Czewski, greasy-haired and wrapped in a blue/black flannel, sighs in the cracked vinyl front seat of his Chevette.* His left cheekbone bears a recently popped pimple which one will watch Trevor, . . . → Read More: All the Little Moving Parts
1986 The arrangement that summer was as follows: Cyril St. John was allowed to assemble every day the yellow and sepia sofa cushions into the two sides and roof of a crude igloo; he could use the twenty-two-inch Pye Teletext to close in the fort’s front, and a second-hand, straight-backed cedar chair for a rear . . . → Read More: Revenants
Amoskeag: Your work, “[sic],” was featured in the 2011 Spring edition of Amoskeag. Tell us a little about the story behind this piece. How did it come about?
James Black: I was discussing with a friend the importance of names. His stepfather’s birth certificate provided only “Baby Boy” as his first name, and we were laughing . . . → Read More: January 7th, 2012
Big fucker named McMasters takes them into the basement. Always bad when orderlies are bored. When they feel like herders of sleeping sheep. Everything’s better when they’ve won control. In battle. Which is what they call it, how they want to see it. Days are great when early on someone wakes their temper, but just . . . → Read More: The Proxy
I. You got your first tattoo when you were twelve. Thirty days back from the hospital, your best friend Jack, son of a three-strike con, did the work for you. He had the know how; made the ink from toothpaste, newspaper ash, and the rainbow runoff of a busted Vis-a-Vis marker set. The outline hurt . . . → Read More: Husk
Error’s mother was disappointed when she didn’t die as promised during childbirth. He knows this because she told him. He tries never to think of it so, of course, he always does. The story goes like this: Four months after he prolapsed her uterus during a difficult breech, Keiko swaddled her son in cotton sheets, . . . → Read More: Gehenna
She does not take her shoes off, though it is warm and she is more than forty minutes early. And she has brought a tatty scarlet cardigan from the trunk, from the Good Will garbage bag, on which to sit, though the sand this high up—by the Champlain grass, but still well below the spill . . . → Read More: Ebb