She Used to Call Me Baby “Hey baby, when I write, I'm the hero of my shit.” — Charles Bukowski There’s nothing like an itch you can’t scratch. On those Saturday nights, when I got itchy, I would drive down to this swank, little drinking establishment on the corner of Way-South and Vine. It […]
I remember when summer used to smell like fresh-cut grass— As he jumps through the sprinkler, the lawn clippings stick stubbornly to bottoms of his bare feet. Tired with this game, he hurries across the hot pavement of the driveway, leaving a trail of tiny-wet footprints, and sits down on the […]
“Her eyes were the color of faraway love.” Pablo Neruda, “The Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks” “What’s taking you so long?” She had asked, leading the way to the swimming hole. Her dark eyes tossed him an impatient look over her shoulder. She was clutching a beach towel, and wearing a two-piece bathing […]
after Ernest Hemingway Charles Thomas pulled the rowboat through the wet sand and down to the surf. Each spring he couldn’t help but remember how the story was told to him. As a young boy, she used to take him to a fishing hole she knew of which was surrounded by fruit trees. There, beneath […]
“Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?” Albert Camus She lie in bed waiting for the alarm to sound. Her eyes wandered slowly around the room as she listened to the winter wind whistling outside the apartment. The darkness seemed like a physical thing—shadows moved upon the wall like pale ghosts. They […]
