Archive for the 'fictive' Category


I hear them kids. Their racket, their cock blooded cacophony spilling into the streets. I ain’t so old, but I could retire with what I know. I get it– the future– this future we pretend not to recognize, in an awkward dance around a former acquaintance, as if to do so would gainsay its basic essence as a repackaged form of the past. I see the patterns, the repetition, the inevitable periodic pain, like a boxing glove whirling around on a string– the kids…

Letter to Mallory


You are right. These late nights benefit no one. They stretch the day and tax our morrows. I promise to lay my head down and quiet the hum of my mad mad mind. Just come over and sing me a lullaby, song bird.


Letter to jaime


It was long ago that I realized I would never have the courage to bother women, in that way that men often do. Some kink in temperament or gap in constitution or plain ol’ heart leaves me disabled so.

So I thought it special last month when your car rear ended mine, bringing us together in a way more violent than I am accustomed to. Still, forgive my forwardness. Only as blunt a man as I would dare to ask a lady her address and insurance details so brazenly. You truly were a vision that evening, your petite shoulders gracefully framing a grade B trauma to the torso.

If you feel the same way about me, at the least, please send word through your State Farm representative. I look forward to your swift and earnest reply.

Your man,
Jones Bingum

Exchange: the setup

She: Is your friend– the one you want to set me up with– is he cute?

He: He’s functional.

She: “Functional.” What is that, like a Swiss army knife?

He: Like a credit card.

She: Is he dorky? You know I have a soft spot for dorks.

He: Yeah, he’s busy overdubbing the latest AV as we speak. Look, go have a drink with him. You’ll like him. He’s smart, successful, confident, driven–

She: A tool.

He: I said he was functional.

She: Why are you doing this?

He: Because this, what we’re doing right now, this is unsustainable. I don’t want this.

She: Nobody here has asked anything of you. You are having an allergic reaction to something you do not understand.

He: Do I look available to you? Do I? Do I look sufficiently adaptive to shape my heart in complement of another?

She: That’s a lot of words to say that you’re selfish.

He: Piss off.

She: Just tell me how you feel about me.

He: I think… that you have great legs.

She: I am two nights away from falling for you, and you tell me “you have great legs”. Go fuck yourself.

He: Only thing left to do. Thanks.

Exchange: on her way

Scene: apartment. Sam is lazing on his couch. John is on the phone.

John: Yeah, I know. It was a shame I missed you at the club.


John: Yeah, me too. Hey, why don’t you girls just come over here?


John: uhhhh… 2nd and 26th.


John: Oh, really? Now? … Okay. See you soon. (to Sam). Shit, they’re really coming!

Sam: Dude, it’s like 4am in the morning. What are they thinking?

John: Do you need me to diagram what they’re thinking? Obviously all those years of groundwork has paid off. She has deeply considered the depth of my character, and is moved by her passions. Hey how much liquor do you have here?

Sam: Not much. We’ll need a beer run.

Scene: corner CVS.

John: beer… beer… Beer?

Sam: I told you. CVS doesn’t sell beer. It’s like some Christian thing. Christian Vendor Service or something.

John: Shit. Okay, how about snacks?

Sam: I got nothing at home.

John: Useless. let’s see, doritos, cool ranch– girls like cool ranch, right? It’s refreshing and refine–

Sam: –and reminds me of 6th grade lunch boxes. What else?

John: baked lay’s.

Sam: baked? Are we serving a salad bar? Also, “baked lays” sounds like a lifestyle neither of us are equipped for at the moment.

John: they’re going to be here soon.

Sam: Want the smart play? Get something subliminal. Yknow, just imagine it. She’ll be relaxing up there, giggling at your dumb jokes, and her hand reaches into the bag. What does she want? Maybe something salty, something crunchy, something phallic.

John: Pretzel sticks. Got it.

Fiction: the steal

“How is Robert? Good. You have been dating for some time; I’m glad to see it is working out. … No, I’m not being sarcastic, you read too much into my lines. … No, I never said I did not like him.

But now that you bring it up, surely you notice he’s more abbrasive than originally believed. He is downright curt with you. When among our friends, he buries his eyes into his phone, snorts and pulls at his shirt unconsciously. He interrupts you, running over your sentences like a slow bumbling tractor pushing mounds of unfunny jokes. Those awful jokes are verbal shivs, stuck further into the gut of the room with each lonely, unshared guffaw. He is a fair skinned Shrek, but without even an ogre’s charisma. He’s a LAWYER, for crying out loud. You can do better.

Also, I think he might be cross-eyed.”

bad fiction: shawna

“Shawna had a cold disposition, a ne’er-a-smile girl. She looked the type to give it up for all wrong reasons, the sort to ogle fame and grope musicians. Skinny. Fair skinned, with a sheen. She caught me stealing glances, but what difference did that ever make.”

fiction: couples

“Marcus promised he would drop by the party, and he did.  He is late, but brings beer, so all is forgiven.  A crowd gathers around the television; the main event has started.  Marcus hangs back, hovering around the chip bowl, darting in occassionally.  The party demographic is clear:  church-going bright-line monogamy.  Everyone is an adult.  Marcus is not.  He swallows a Dorito and decides to flirt with someone’s girlfriend.”

No bites

I am writing love letters
to past persons,
hypotheticals futures,
alternative universes.
I deliver them to
curious bystanders,
disinterested third parties,
and literary agents.


Scene: subway

Two young people enter my zone on the 4 train platform. She wears Converses and sports a backpack. His face is filled and his hair drapes over his hoodie. It’s too long– is it a wig? They are a couple; their proximity gives them away. He reaches out for her and settles for a curl in her pocket flap. She rests a hand on his chest. They talk quietly. They are a couple. I plug my ears with music and crank it high enough to blind me.

I don’t really want to study; I want to spend my days writing about my FEELINGS and about love and relations and attraction and oh yes about how I FEEL on the inside HURRAY OH GOODIE. How do you feel, reader? In less than 20 words.


I have decided to change careers yet again. This time, I am convinced my true calling lies in writing. This realization took hold of me during an evening of alarming possibilities in which a beautiful girl, of recent introduction, leaned in and whispered into my ear, “You have an amazing way with words,” after which I found myself in a puddle of melted resolve lying at her feet. There is a story here, but not one for this space, at this hour…

exchange: the confrontation

Scene: an unassuming restaurant specializing in bite-sized meat, unintrusive service, and crushed hope.

Girl: Yum, this short rib is delicious. Try some!

Boy: Listen, let’s not dance around this anymore. I have a giant crush on you and have had one for a while.

Girl: SOOOO yummy!

Boy: We get along great as friends, and I think you feel the same way about me, and I’m single now, and I think we should just go for it. Consequences be damned.

Girl: OMG, what kind of marinade is on this sirloin???

Boy: Liz, please–

Girl: I’m leaving New York in August and moving to Barcelona to be with my boyfriend Guillermo. Waitress, can we have the flan for dessert? Thanks.


Markus smiled like a wolf. It was a cross-cut, jut-jawed leer. Even a punch to his face, drawing blood, would elicit that toothy upturn. The creep must enjoy the taste of his own blood. He certainly wasn’t to be trusted. One day, he would seize control of the others on the island, and for that reason, I must be vigilant. At least, for now, only I know about the snake pit.