short story

Dear reader, I ask for your forgiveness in advance. We have not properly met, and yet here I am insinuating myself into your thoughts. I wish I could say this…

The first time a coworker called him Burnman, it stuck. He rode a motorcycle, followed football as a religion, drank fast, and had short relationships with a parade of women…

With one glance, Jarvis knew something was going down. Call it a premonition, if you must, for certainly there was nothing apparent that warranted such a feeling. He was exiting…

Rory didn’t know it, but this was his last time flying to Philadelphia. Which could be considered a good thing for someone who didn’t like flying. Or Philly. Or winter….

Waiting. Frustration. Brittany stepped back into the warm, rural home. “What’s taking dad so long?” Her mom was unconcerned. “The snow probably slowed him.” “That truck will go through anything…

If someone tells a fabricated or unreal story, yet appears sincere, would you describe that person as simply a liar, or insane? Sometimes it’s transparent. Like the time a guy…

“Say that again?” The golf-shirt guy with grey hair and a few too many beers put his glass down on the hotel bar, drifted his red eyes to the new…

Young boys do stupid things. I was no exception. Back then if you had asked, “What was I thinking?” I could only reply that I wasn’t. In retrospect, my justification…

He didn’t die suddenly. You could say it was a progression towards intimate judgment.

Each instant — while jumping from the top of one moving train car to the next — inspires an intoxication of worldly detachment and a paradoxical dichotomy.