Stories

Bad Choices

The strip mall looks like stacked graham crackers dropped in the broken and dusty blacktop parking lot. It is low and brown, a rectangle of plate glass windows and mud colored brick. Straw-doll weeds poke through the crumbling asphalt; drying in the Texas sun. The store fronts reflect...

Cracked Asphalt

Seven Days with the Comte de St. Germaine

Day 1.
“Your coffee molecules cause too much noise. It is totally messing with my harmonic sensitivities,” she said. She held a plastic cup of Boba tea in her hand. Her nails were chipped and black. The unburst beads rested in the bottom of the cup like Russian caviar.
“I’m sorry.” The boy replied.
“Why were you staring at me?” she asked.
“I…uh…”
“I can always tell when someone is staring, you know,” she continued, “I have powers.”

Seven-Days-with-the-Comte-de-Saint-Germa

Jack and the Mountain (The Prelude)

1980: The Boston Mountains, Arkansas

            The wind cut hard across the mountaintop cemetery. It sent skirling leaves and the seasons’ first flurry of icy snow over the weathered gravestones and through the raddled trees’ clutching fingers. Abe stood holding his hat. He looked uncomfortable in his worn brown suit. It was clean, but didn’t fit and was shiny at elbows and knees. It was old, just like Abe. He looked angry.

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