Welcome to my blog for writing. Here is where you will find an archive of short stories and essays I have written. Many of those stories were published at a blog I have since taken down called Clintonaut. Many of those... Continue Reading →
But I am also a sucker for Indian food, and particularly butter chicken. So we decided to give this a try.
Toby Burnhouser was bigger than Brick, and he held my right arm down. Toby gritted his gums and breathed hard through his nose. He took his job as one of Jimmy’s henchmen a little too seriously. My right hand started to go numb as Burnhouser pushed down harder into the short-pile race-track play carpet.
As a young kid intrigued by spies, guns, and kissing pretty girls, I'd have been happy enough with all of this. But at about two minutes and fourteen seconds in, something dramatic happens.
Today, you've got avowed, unapologetic racists posing with the president, denigrating previous occupants of the White House.
But the best room, the room with the most detail, the room done with the most love, delicacy and special care was the larger guest bedroom. Why she chose the guest room for this memory, this moment was anybody's guess.
I got caught up in this trying to do a flash fiction challenge. The challenge was pick a random image and write a 1,000 word story on it in a week. Mine was the castle you see in attached to this entry.
I've had a few things moving around in my head for a long time. The last two months, I've been able to do some reorganizing. Call it mental spring cleaning.
The older one released the cylinder and spun it once. Then he tipped it back, emptying the six chambers of the cylinder. Then he let one shimmering, gold bullet in between his black-dirty thumb and forefinger, and loaded one chamber.