Writing

Brad Turner plucked a hair from his lapel, and then let it float into the trash bin beneath the counter. He smiled at his reflection, held for three seconds while swiveling his head, and returned to his shrewd self-assessment. He’d need his eyebrows done before the interview with the Sheikh next Tuesday.

He didn’t wield a cardboard sign or hold a paper cup, nor did he play guitar like the vagrant under the rattling tracks on Division or say nice things to the passersby. The few bills he received were clenched in one browned paw. The other hand often held a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor, and when it didn’t, it hopped and waved on the sidewalk like an injured bird.

On the first anniversary of their father’s death, James received a package from David. It had travelled from the West Coast, over the Rockies and to St. Louis before it was delivered to Manhattan. James slit the faded envelope and slid the contents onto his table. Inside was a chunk of gold, a federal patent for land, and a letter.

It was a common sight to see Dr. Arthur Richards slouched in his wheelchair, wheezing from the side of his mouth so that the edges of his moustache trembled, a spot of saliva bejeweling his collar. But young Henry was concerned to find Richards wilting now, for while his master looked as slumped as Henry was accustomed, the doctor was decidedly not wheezing and the only wet substance on his collar was ruby red.

Kissing Danny was a better lesson in tradeoffs than anything in an Econ textbook. Everything he gained with solid tongue technique, he lost with his rancid halitosis. Parker had a hard time saying no because one day she’d have to explain to Danny that she only started hooking up with him to make Aaron Reed jealous.

As my plane flew closer, Scotland emerged from the mist, craggy hill by craggy hill like the bumps of a great turtle shell. I noticed a man perched on the edge of one of the weathered cliffs, wearing a tartan cap and a moss green kilt. He stared out at the ocean and leaned forward like he was waiting forsomeone. I elbowed Harry and asked him what he thought of the man, Scotland’s first ambassador to us.

From London to Paris to Budapest, The Orient Express flows without rest.

On the auspicious day Thurbeous Humboldt discovered that love, in fact, did exist, he locked himself in his study to record each and every detail of his fateful meeting with Emily Kershaw. In the course of 18 long hours, 5 quill pens, 2 ink wells, and numerous cups of tea (his maids emptied the chamber pot twice per hour at the height of his frenzy) he managed to complete a 117 page account.

Sterile glow of the streetlight, The deafening absence of sound.

“What?” I looked to my right at the guy who had passed out after two mojitos and a portion of god-awful microwave lasagna. It wasn’t him speaking to me.

The day I died was the day I met Eileen on the subway. That’s not quite right; I met her outside the station, but I saw her on the subway first, if that counts. I suppose the first thing I almost said to her, while still on the subway, was to compliment her matching earrings and scarf.

Keith told me he called Netflix and complained that his envelopes were open. They said talk to your mailman. They said to try streaming. They said it wasn’t their problem. He threw the phone at the wall and now he’s grounded.