An Unveiling


Cynthia, you should really try being yourself if you intend to succeed
This projection of being an impeccable tease is terrible, please
The endless, senseless deceit tends to be cheap, a weapon you wield
And a futile one at that; you may as well swing a tire wrench at the breeze
Men think you a tired wench & a skeez… for what, your archetypical traits?
I’m gonna have to ask you to abandon the glittering carriage of narcissism with haste
Selflessness… let it nestle into the comfortable bedchamber of your own psyche


The Hole


Angie could recall every detail of the burial of her father. It was the kind of perfect, balmy day that occasionally happens in late fall in New England. The sky sharp and blue, the air warm, even the gentle winds were summer like. The grass still thick and green, swaying with the wind. Only the bare trees gave away the season. It was a beautiful day. Except they were burying her father. Her father, whom she adored, and had been alive and well when she left for school Monday and dead when she got home. A heart attack they told her, out of the blue. There was crying and grown-ups hugging her, telling her to be brave. Telling her how much her father loved her.



Circuit Board

“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure.”
“Stop scratching.”
“I’m sorry. It itches.”
“I know it itches, but I’m prepping your head. You’re lucky I went to med school.”
“Virtual med school.”
“Sit still. Okay. This might still sting.”
“Did they catch the other guy?”
“You know they did. They’ll catch you too. Facial Recognition.”


The Language Barrier


On his way back from the office, Donald Davenport called his wife Martha at home from the phone booth that stood outside The Small Theatre off Franklyn Street. Next Tuesday, there would be a performance of The Clock in the Sky, a new play that had recently been written up in a reliable newspaper. After speaking to Martha, Donald hung up and entered though the old revolving doors of the theatre. The familiar rustic interior, the smoke stained walls displaying posters of up-and-coming shows, the gleaming marble floor, and the usual staff whom Donald knew well were inside. Shaking off the dampness from the late evening drizzle, Donald made his way over to the ticket office. Jane the ticket attendant smiled from over her typewriter as Donald approached.


Death Made a Pie


I found old man Hendricks’s house fascinating. The sunken in roof. The broken rickety fence. The brown mass of grass. There were never any lights on except for the upstairs, and I don’t remember the last time I saw old man Hendricks. I wondered if he was even alive, but then a shadow moved against the window. Four kids hurried over to his property. They reached into their plastic pumpkins, dishing out apples, and without hesitation, they launched them at the windows. Most smashed against the outside. One was a home run, and glass shattered. The kids bolted, turned the corner, but my attention remained on the house. Its owner never emerged.