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Written by joshuacitrak
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Monday, 28 April 2008 |
I was born in New York. I am a fan of baseball. There are only twenty people in this country that have the same last name as me.
See? That isn’t difficult. I don’t have to divulge national secrets, but goddamnit I do have to say something. Just whatever. Make some kind of effort. C’mon kid, it’s game time. Focus. No crowd. No lights. No cameras. Just you and the ball.
I look at her. Sitting up straight, poised, ready for something to happen. But, nothing’s happening… I’m trying… something spontaneous… let’s go to Vegas… naw, let’s just go the bathroom. Be the ball, Danny, nananananaa… A tiny straw is between her fingers. She is stabbing it violently, hopelessly through a slush of ice and alcohol. This is crazy! This is a mistake! Don’t say that, though. Now, she’s checking herself out in the mirror behind the bar, ah! The lust sparkling in her eyes! Oh yeah, you look good. Work it. ‘Cause I’m gonna work you. I’m gonna lay some shit on you like you ain’t never heard.
I wonder if I made the right move going with the casual look, the baseball jersey, the sneaks. What are my clothes saying about me, seeing how they are the only thing talking? Maybe she doesn’t want good conversation. I don’t know what she wants, but there is a look in her eye. It means something. Every look means something. Even if it means nothing. Earth to Zen master- stop staring at her breasts. A conversation is a road. To her place. Think about it that way. The looks are signs.
Maximum speed and so forth. |
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Written by t.k. nickerson
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Monday, 28 April 2008 |
On Sunday’s you had to make sure you had enough melon, because often, it was the only thing on the plate that didn’t get sent back. If you ran out of melon, the other cooks would freak, morale on the line would collapse.
“Dios mio,” they’d say, spatula’s and tongs dangling from their hands, the frantic cacophony of the kitchen cross-faded to a whisper if they saw you picking sprigs of parsley, or cutting juice oranges into swans. “No se puede.” |
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Last Updated ( Monday, 28 April 2008 )
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What we're reading
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Creamy Bullets Kevin Samspell Chiasmus Press buy at amazon probably the best titled book of the year. this is a collection of short-shorts, medium length and longer stories by PDX's Kevin Sampsell. "Trails", a short one about a fish named Teller that grows hair, is a perfect example of Sampsell's mastery of the short-short (flash fiction) story. he knows just exactly the right words to relay to the reader, letting them paint precise and concise pictures that tell a story more in depth than 500 words will allow a lesser writer. too often, a flash piece is either a broken, disjointed ramble without context, or an ambiguous idea that is poorly hashed out. not here, Kevin's stories about sexual frustration, weird situtations and tender momements that exist between all that will certainly touch you. maybe in some place naughty, definitely in a place unexpected. |
TotBM
“I’m in a trajectory of ascension,” he said, not looking me in the eyes as he slowly set down his glass.
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