Post-Script: A rough draft of this, I believe, was the first time I played the Ten Sentences game with myself. It’s a faithful rendering of what was, in reality, one of the most existentially depressing, grotesque, and sorry ordeals I’ve ever seen. Though over my years of recreational self-medication I so commonly went to work . . . → Read More: Post-Script: The Mating Game
This is not a story about genicons or masturbation.
Spring of ’ninety-three, I was twelve years old and my vernal girlfriend was either my last imaginary friend or the first fictional character I ever penned. Well into adulthood, I remain unsure which title is more suitable. Earlier today, explaining how an extinguished but previously long-extant . . . → Read More: I Just Made Her Up to Hurt Myself
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
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
Her skirt and white cotton panties lay strewn, witness to our careless, quotidian act and reminder, drawing me back in nostalgia for the better days when we were young, and every boy’s worst nemesis was the clasp of a bra: all that lay between a frustrated hell and undiscovered Eden. And eventually, after clench-jawed fumbling, . . . → Read More: Tartan
After a while, he went to the extent of renting two beds, twin pressboard dressers; a larger apartment, as well. He said support was paid up to date and the troublesome custody battle had come to an end. All of this means, he believes, that no one could doubt his daughters—estranged, now teenaged—are really coming . . . → Read More: Elaborate Act
1. The Father The burial isn’t the first time the father has seen his son, but it may as well be. Nine months after delivery, he told his son’s mother he’d never wanted children. He stood with the woman on the sunlit front porch of their townhouse. “I’m sorry,” he said. “All babies look like . . . → Read More: The Kind of Man Who
Angie’s seen him adjust himself two times today; he doesn’t want to risk a third. Of all people, she would file a complaint. Garrett takes little steps, scampers into the furthest aisle between 1990 and the brick wall. There, he reaches down to fix himself again.
He pinches the bottom edge of the fabric between . . . → Read More: Contretemps
Two Across is ‘love’ and he tells her so and she fills it in. He waits for her reaction; there is no reaction. The clue was ‘amorous sentiment’ and he solved it easily because he sits at the counter with her and the shampoo in her shower damp hair is redolent.