Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

the lunch

Posted: November 5, 2011 in Fiction
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22

He didn’t need to see her. God, no. Yet he stood listening to that voice, that voice of yesterday, that voice of a thousand years ago, that voice which shattered his world. “Jake, I want to see you. Call me back. You know the old number.” Click. It was the sound of echoes. No identifying greeting, no ‘guess who’, no whispered code, no hesitation. And no hint of doubt he still had the old number.

I want to see you.

No, he didn’t need to see her. He didn’t need to see her for he knew exactly (more…)

not your usual halloween tale

Posted: October 31, 2011 in Fiction
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18

I was born on Halloween night during a rainstorm of historic proportions in a taxi speeding the wrong way down a side street driven by a one-eyed man suffering from insomnia convinced he was being chased by a jeep filled with machine gun toting rebel Cuban guerillas.

The rains began on October 24th, a week before my birth. Once started they didn’t stop. Within four days the river had crested to record levels and flood waters spread across low lying areas like mercury escaping from a thermometer. My parents had recently moved to town, buying an old (more…)

trapeze artist

Posted: October 21, 2011 in Fiction
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6

Note: This was written a few years ago as a project for Utata.

The barren land stretches before him like a benediction. Gonzalez’s voice fills his head, tense and straddling the fine line between a plea and a reprimand. “You have to pull up, Captain! We’re coming in too low!” He ignores the warning. He knows exactly what to do and when to do it. Too soon and radar will flag them. Too late and they will be caught in a thermal wave. The timing must be perfect. That’s the thrill of it! (more…)

they will never know

Posted: September 15, 2011 in Fiction
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4

I read minds. It is one of my more brilliant talents, but no one here in the square knows that. They notice me, but I’m a passing consideration, almost invisible. Young or old, makes no difference. They see an old man eating chips in the Durham Markets and this fleeting thought comes to them: “Poor sod. Spends his days watching the world pass by. How sad and pathetic.” For that brief instant the young can’t hide their mocking scorn as easily as the older ones mask their pity. A long forgotten man, probably worked the mills, set out to pasture. That’s what they (more…)

don’t forget the cigarettes

Posted: June 21, 2011 in Fiction
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0

“Linda.”

Not now, not right when my show is coming on. Maybe if I pretend I don’t hear him, the meds will (more…)

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