Breaking Even

Right away he started waving the gun around and hollering about his wife, how she was no good, he never should have trusted her, he loved her, his best friend Ronnie was a no good bastard, the cops are probably looking for him, it was all over, he was gonna kill Ronnie and anybody who got in his way.

Getting Here

Afternoons in a well-worn wooden chair at the Allentown, Pennsylvania Public Library reading Dr. Seuss register as happy memories in an otherwise chaotic early childhood. Reading and writing felt as natural and welcome to me as running wild on the playground.

Frankenstein’s Monster

She first saw him three months ago at the tail-end of the horrible summer. The manager and the stocker used to stand in the walk-in freezer on their off-time while she stood behind the register in the faint breeze of the window-unit, sweating through her red polo shirt that had once belonged to her father. The stranger was nearly seven-feet tall and had to crouch beneath the threshold as he entered the store. He bought standard poor-people things, staples: cans of beans, single pounds of only the discount ground beef, butter, milk, hot sauce, brown sugar, steel-cut oatmeal, eggs, and chocolate.

Haunting the Widow

One sometimes has to make sacrifices for art. She loves the richness of an oil painting, its depth. Although she hasn’t given away any of her artwork, it might be time.

Her husband is no longer here to object to her giving her artwork away, to spending money on art supplies, to having a hobby that has nothing to do with being a farm wife.