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 →
A big part of having the kids around is feeding them. Most nights I try to cook healthy meals for them, complete with vegetables and fresh fruit. Sometimes I hit a home run -- pasta is usually a winner, tacos always work, chicken and veggies. Sometimes it's a miss. I made a great black bean soup the other night, and the kids just weren't down with it.
They hit the switch, there was an electric crackle, and all I could see was hazy white out the window. I felt myself drifting, and then I saw nothing but blue. No other colors, not even close.
He had found it almost by accident, the strange stone monkey, an artifact worth a lot to an old guy in Chicago. Three days later he was on a cot in a hut in Fortaleza in the depths of something a lot like malaria. It was the monkey – the Gypsy Monkey, they called it – and it spoke to him in his twisted dreams. Make your choice, make your sacrifice.
I am always impressed when writers can channel a different time.
Two days later I was sitting on my small balcony wondering what to expect, when the breeze shifted and the evening rain clouds rolled in. I ordered a pizza and ran down to the market for a six-pack. The rain had just started plinking on the roof when I heard the knock. I knew who it was.
The thing I am most grateful for is my children. They have provided a clarity and focus to my life I never thought possible. They make me want to be a better dad. They make me want to be a better man.
His eyes glanced at the polished desk to the right of the fireplace, papers stacked meticulously. A green lamp, a set of gold pens. Something that looked like some official stamp. Some envelopes. A gun.