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payphone, baja, street, urban, collect call, city street

Friday the 57th — a postcard story

The voices whispered in my head, hammering away with quiet, deadly words. They were the only ones in there now. They’d tied up Hope, shoved memory of better times and better dreams in her mouth, gagging her. Forcing her silent. They injected me with nightmares and fear––I saw their evil faces, tasted their foulness until I lost myself. But today––I woke up.   Hope, with bloodied and mangled wrists, untied my mind, let loose the thoughts of you, how you held me when I was in the...

caution tape, baja, door, graffiti, stay out, warning

Thursday the 56th –– a postcard story

We drink black pop and stare past the yellow tape. I ask, what do you think happened here? This is how we start the game, the story game. I think the papa bear came back to finish off Goldilocks, you say.  He ripped the place apart, ate some Captain Crunch and when he couldn’t find no one with golden hair, he roared, and the roar was so mighty it cracked the ceiling. Now it’s not safe to go in.   You take a long drink and fling...

fire escape, back alley, latter, climb, break in

Wednesday the 55th – A postcard story

Nine in the morning, the best time to break in, take what I want and leave. I’m not saying its sexy. And no, it isn’t legal. But it puts food on the table, at least most of the time. The trick is to do your homework. Know a routine. Most people leave for work by nine––and I’ve had my coffee. I call it my golden hour when shadows are hard-edged from a sun that is well on its way to the top of the world.   Even in...

aliens, books, snatched up, end times, a life for the stars

Tuesday the 54th — a postcard story

I remember talking to the sky that day––after Nikki had kicked over our last jug of water and we had only one granola bar between the three of us. I hated those bars, the kind with the yogurt coating. The damn thing had melted into chemical goo and poured out as we tore open the package. Dan sliced even portions with his pocket knife, and that’s when I found it, over a small ridge, in the middle of a stream bed. A book. It was the...

door, rock, gate to hell, Jerome, short story, flash fiction, texture

Monday the 53rd – A Postcard Story

You said if I told, the Devil would get me while I was sleeping. Reach right up from under my bed and drag me to hell. I wore socks to bed for two years. My feet sweating under the covers and one morning, a sock was gone. Snatched right off my foot. You said that was a warning. A reminder not to tell who had left the barn door open that day. I believed you.   A few years later, I was walking home from school and...

tether ball, street art, wall art, urban art, life, kids playing

Sunday the 52nd – A postcard story

You can always tell the ones who are lost. They drive real slow but not too slow cause they think they’re gonna get carjacked or shot in our neighborhood. They are the ones who got lost by mistake, made a wrong turn on the way to the interstate. They are scared and stupid.   We aren’t scared. We know better. Mecko, the old guy on the corner just wants some smokes––give him a few coins, and he’s harmless as a sparrow. We’ve seen him take the cigarette...

angel wings

Saturday the 51th – a postcard story

Closing time. The last eight ball slammed into the right, corner pocket. Beers were drained, and money slapped down on the sweaty table––we were ravenous, cast out into the streets past midnight and looking for greasy hash browns, chicken and waffles.   You slid out of the taxi as if you’d fallen from the sky. I turned around and there you were. I was thinking about food when you dropped into my life, into all our lives. You––with your stomping boots and flowered dress.   Allister said you were...

Friday the 50th – Postcard Story

P. is almost 60 years old (but looks 74 in good light), an early retired analyst and a wannabe hipster. It doesn’t suit him, I’ve told him as much, but he just scowls and keeps waxing his surfboard.   This morning, little flakes of white wax float to my balcony––I’m in a good mood, so I pretend it’s snowing. I think I’ve got cholera, I say, to start something. No one gets cholera, not here, he says in his old man voice. I think he forgot to put...

white daisy

Thursday the 49th

We hadn’t talked for days. I don’t remember why; why you threw down the book you were reading, why I walked out. But the flowers I bought at Mr. Higgins corner store, I still see them plain as smog over the city. Daisies. White ones. The black center dark as midnight.   I stood outside our door, nervous as I was for our first date. I knocked even though I had a key. You were wearing the clogs you always wore. The clip-clop getting closer as my...

old black and white tv

Making things up and why I do it

As a writer, you’d think I’d have a lot to say. That so many months wouldn’t have gone by between newsletters.   I do have plenty to say, but all of it is made up. I find real life stuff hard to write about or even boring––at least when it comes to my own life. Of course, other people’s stories I find ridiculously interesting, especially when they are told over a coffee, wine or beside a firepit.   But recently, as I sat in the lobby waiting for my...