Jennifer’s Facebook was without posture. Like she’d answered the questions rapidly, no consideration of real-world consequence. She liked eighties movies, still mourned Bradley Nowell. Occupation: EMT. Relationship Status: Single. Mom reappeared, racket in hand. “I’m going to the club if you want me to drop you at Whole Foods. Benjy said he’d pick you up in an hour.” I was twenty, didn’t have a license. Benjy had been old for his grade. When he turned sixteen Dad had bought him a Range Rover to make up for marital misconduct. Car was yellow, colossal, called the Short Bus
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Part 3 (Part 1, Part 2) Mary found the white plastic shopping bag containing a framed color photograph in the trunk of his car. Bill removed the keys from his back pocket while walking across the teacher’s parking lot. The silver frame held the snapshot of a teenage girl with curly blond hair standing on the shore of a lake. He slid the key in the lock and turned it to the left. Judging by the faded colors and the girl’s blouse, Mary decided that it had been taken in the mid-seventies. He closed the door and pulled the » Continue reading Friday, December 19, 1997 by Donald Breckenridge… Part 1 Sarah contemplated his tranquil expression before saying, “I always thought you had,” in a soft voice. Bill pulled the damp condom off his flaccid erection, “that isn’t true.” The pounding in his chest had begun to subside. Sarah possessed a glowing intensity that radiated between them, “A lot of girls in school,” her cheeks were a rosy pink, “said they slept with you,” and her eyes were wide open. Sperm collected in the tip of the condom he held between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. She pressed her thighs together and sighed. He weighed » Continue reading Friday, March 28, 1997 by Donald Breckenridge… About the novel: Outgrown Horses tells the story of Brent, a 20-year-old semi-closeted gay man who saves horses from slaughter at auction, and his relationships with Rusty, a disabled man whose therapy includes horseback riding, Lewis, Rusty’s 13-year-old son who idolizes Brent, and Daniel, a top notch show jumper succumbing to the shady world in the horse show circuit. When Brent starts training Sam, a dangerous horse with grand prix potential, he begins to confront his feelings about Daniel and question Daniel’s motives when he suggests Brent sell Sam to a horse dealer. It was well into March when Rusty In one story, the two sisters were an olive at the bottom of a dirty martini and were clipped in two by a set of large teeth. One sister was the top half of the olive. She imagined herself in the mouth of the old man she was in love with. The other sister, the bottom half, was trapped under the tongue until she slipped out as the large mouth took the shape of laughter. There was something just right about the way she moved in his mouth and she knew he was probably thinking about it It was raining when The Boy left. He had an aunt living somewhere in New Orleans who furiously believed that rain was God’s Morse code –and that if you could capture the sounds of rain on the whole planet, at one time, then you would be rewarded with a direct message from providence. She was the same crazy soul who had skin like a dried riverbed and said she was haunted by the ghost of an orchid. Quietly closing the door behind him, he imagined his mother’s face, and how her eyes looked like wet pavement when she cried. Now About the novel: THE BOY WITH THE BUTTERFLY WINGS is a 101,000 word literary novel with a hip, edgy feeling — which is the way old people describe books when young people describe the world around them. There’s some postmodern play, soft magical realism, carnivals, forbidden love, and of course very telegenic butterfly wings. As incompetent doctors rush to find a cure, The Boy’s butterfly wings continue to become larger and larger and –darker. The Boy begins to suspect that his “condition” is somehow related to his Ukrainian heritage. In fact, he was born on the same day as the An excerpt from Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel. I’m not a brainless idiot, but what does any kid know about anything? No one ever told me about the birds and the bees, so back when I was thirteen, I knew less than anyone. After four months of rubbing myself two or three times a day, something terrible happened. Instead of a dry shudder and a warm tickle, I squirted white pus all over my belly and it scared the holy shit out of me. Every bone and muscle in my body was shaking and I could feel my heart banging Listen to a reading of the prologue of Off-Season by Mark DeCarteret by Jim Rioux. An excerpt from Off-Season. Prologue March. No calendar will claim it. A mess of a month that had never had the means to be cruel. This reign of frustrated desire. And what’s more an experiment as all stories worth telling must be. A month of feigned errands where we return to our houses finally ready to confess. But never to turn ourselves in. And while somewhere birds are donning their carnival masks, crying out from their diaphragms, here, our birds smear our windows with ash. People had been trying to shut down the hotel since the early Protestant work ethic showed up and told everybody how to run their businesses. Prostitutes and poker had to be moved to the basement, to the attic, at least during daytime. Ash’s Great-Grandmother stepped in to partner her husband around 1890, and the pictures show her as a ghost of a woman. Technically, she was also my mother’s Great-Aunt. Great-Aunt and Great-Grandfather counting money in the back while a smoky hallway of people laughed and the night went on. I wonder about Karma and wonder if the wives of |
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