Desiccated chicken legs under the chairs. Piles of twisted accordion-shaped pop cans. Coffee can of shotgun shells. Stray Cheerios float atop milk drops on a vi...
I walk quickly, without pause, for fear someone will read my mind and discover my intent—to skip mass and enter the inner sanctum where only the invited can go....
“Ever heard of crank?” my best friend Jane said. We sat in her kitchen amid stacks of old National Geographics on my first visit to Rairdon. It was the early ei...
Freshman year we tried to keep our heads down or at least out of the toilets. The athletes and the beautiful girls had it different, I guess, hoping to get noti...
November 2014
I love the radioactive glow from the heat lamps on the roast chickens, and I love my guy from Bay Ridge slicing up cold cuts, who asks me how I...
Vincent and the Centipede
Vincent told me a story that night, the night we stayed up until it got bright. He was biting the skin around his fingernails and l...
