Little Library

Tsk, I knew that woman. She used to live in a mountain of papers and books down by the French Quarter. Knew her husband, too. One of those academic types that fell off the wagon and thought he could make the streets work for him instead of letting them take him.

An Ode to You Two

I must have been around ten years old when the school library became my favorite place on earth. It wasn’t much, in fact, it was quite small. But that didn’t matter because I was small too.

Laced with Kleptomania

Although she didn’t know the exact date it started, she knew that in the beginning, she stole little things. A stick of Chapstick at the grocery store, a new nail polish, or an un-scanned item at self-checkout were all; what she considered to be petty acts of thievery that gave her an undeniable sensation and a psychological rush like no other. These acts, as time passed, developed into an exotic and progressive entanglement with the untamed sin of robbery. Her boyfriend would steal too. At times, they would steal together.

Stealing Almonds

When I was nine, I became best friends with Chubby Morgan to humor my mother, who was on the verge of taking me to a psychiatrist because I spent most of my time alone or with imaginary playmates.

A Funeral

Florida was everything that my parents had promised, and I was miserable. The hotel featured a sprawling labyrinth of hot tubs, waterslides and juice bars. The arcade had games I normally would have never been allowed to play, and women in red, blue and purple swimsuits of varying styles were everywhere. At first, the distractions were enough, but I soon became twitchy and weird like an animal with fleas. Everything sent me into a state of chaotic desire, the warmth of the swimming pool, the sound of the squeak of my back on the rickety waterslide, the coolness my hand felt on the side of a concrete.