• Maybe before.

    Maybe my seventeen year-old son will be walking down the street with a bag of Skittles in his hand. Maybe he will have smoked a joint with friends before taking his walk. Maybe he will be wearing a hooded sweatshirt. Maybe he will be talking on his cell phone. Maybe he will hear your steps… Continue Reading

  • Birchwood.

    A short work of true fiction. He was drunk when he swung up onto the curb in front of our house, lurching to a stop.  The right front tire rested on the grass. Bitch. Whore. Slut.  Words slurred and poorly aimed, falling short of their target. She stood washing her truck in the driveway next… Continue Reading

  • Jagged little pill.

    So to make a long story short, my eldest son is not joining the Navy. He is no longer enlisted for reasons that are for him to explain to those he chooses, or not, should he choose to have them remain private. And yes, it goes without saying, that he retained full approval over my… Continue Reading

  • Wildings.

    At the beginning of the wild rumpus I made the sounds; heavy on the drumbeats suitable for monsters suitable for mothers of sons released into the wild. Things of rage, intemperate, frantic for a target; escaped from cultivation to an undomesticated landscape seeking nothing in particular, and the world in general. Laid at their feet,… Continue Reading

  • Versimilitude.

    The dresser drawer sticks – the metal handles slap loudly against its wood frame when jerked open; raw materials of the rites of passage, the childish, the criminal, the discarded; taken out of context and placed absentmindedly into storage. Red gift bag with teddy bear inside, red bow around its neck; Batman Sucks t-shirt; script… Continue Reading

  • Reality check.

    Sometimes I think I am an orange peel, floating by Salinger-esque; existing only in my mind. And then I stub my little toe on the corner of the damn black hutch in the kitchen.