Abraham doubled over to contain the bile that swelled in his throat coughing himself awake. He threw his head against the foot square whole carved in the wall, his hand fumbling with the latch to press open the shutters. Looking down the street he could see the sun crest over the whitewashed buildings that dotted the Brooklyn shoreline. The sight of water and city was both familiar and unsettled him in the same breath. The buildings did not bear the rough stone or painted brick he was used to. The shore did not have the same rolling platinum clouds over head. They had been replaced by an alien sky of pale blue with buildings of red brick and wood. His cool summer breeze had been blown away by a lingering humidity that seeped in through the walls and floors leaving a damp film on his skin.
Tag: Writing
Short Stories: Truncate
The mustard haze of office lights coated in the collected filth of nearly four decades flickered in the emergency stairwell. Sarah collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the cement floor exhausted. Her knees pulled to her chest she curled into a ball. A newly formed fixture on the cold cement landing she made no noise, the reverberating hum of the building’s air conditioner the sole sound.
Short Stories: Macadam
A road was an odd thing to remember from one’s childhood, especially one you never lived on. Yet for Tom Marrow the tight turns and rolling pitch of the narrow stone road down were as unforgettable to him as any monumental he had ever seen in his life. This was what he had told his wife with supreme confidence, his foot pressed down on the gas to urge the old sedan back towards his father’s farmhouse where the family waiting for Christmas dinner.
Short Stories: Vulnerary
Niklas watched the crowd from his apartment balcony, their subtle collective sway an anthemia to the words which flowed with practiced lyrical grace from their lips. His fist clenched he walked inside shaking.
Short Stories: Invective
Marie was a pragmatic person who had only ever really possessed two truly abstract nostalgic loves, that of fall and of the early morning hours in the city. Both exuded the same effect of setting her mind at least in a way that very little else could. A few of her older Pilates friends referred to the feeling as Zen. A concept, like most religious ones she had only vague paid attention to as it flirted in and out of the public consciousness. Regardless after hearing their description she can to concede it was at least in part accurate. The terminology aside the effect doubled blissfully when the two occurred in tandem.
Short Stories: Banausic
The smell of burnt molasses rose from the aging breakroom coffee pot to permeate the slender windowless space, giving it at least in order the feeling of the holidays. Steve leaned back into the leather desk chair, the weight of the day drawing his eyes down he found an odd comfort in the subtle hum of the old halogen bulbs that lit the space.
The Flask/Pen 