“What do you know about this campground?” she asked me.
“I’ve camped here before, and it’s nice,” I said. “The beach is just beyond those trees, and It’s quiet, at least the times I’ve been here.”
“You’re doing the art fair, right?”
“I, uh…” then I hesitated. This woman, much younger than me, is treating me as if she knows me; as if I know her. She seems relaxed yet the look in her eyes tells me we have a long history of loving, though I know this is the first time we’ve met, at least in this lifetime.

His trembling, glistening lips, the first thing she noticed as he walked in from the rain, hood pulled over his brow. Even sopping wet, he was perfection, and she knew he would never see her. This was her curse; a heart as full as a baked potato, but as invisible to the world as a polar bear in a Michigan blizzard. All these metaphors and similes crammed into 100 words like a hastily-packed suitcase. Would it make any difference? Would he be the one? She knew the truth. All these centuries going by, love always just beyond her grasp

Story #3

Hands That Betray

A righteous man, so, so long, before your carelessness. Now, just a man.
You don’t have this in you.
No, so I’ll have to put it in you.
Do your worst.
You will do your worst. To your family. The video of it, of their pleading, will haunt you. One you will smother. Another you will dunk countless times in the bathtub until struggling ceases. The favorite will be chased, unable to escape the house, and listen to the others until the knife finds her. It will be over instantaneously, and you will remember none of it.
None of what?

Story #4
Damn Shoes
On the lawn, his shoes lay tipped on their sides, soles facing one another. Untouched. How long had they been there? They still looked new.
She pulled her eyes away and looked at the soapy water. Flakes of egg floated along with the bubbles.
She took care of the rest of it. His clothes, donated. His old bike, sold. She kept a few of his books and drawings. Photos of them, of course. Everything else was gone.
It’s strange what you cling to.
She walked barefoot across the frosted grass and stared down at them. Her chest tightened.
“Damn shoes.”

Story #5
Focus
I’m thinking about how it all went by so quickly, and slowly; but mostly, I’m mesmerized by how she looks absolutely beautiful. When it all started, it was a Dickensian best of times/worst of times with her. There was anger, and non-anger. And there was also affection and yes – even pride. But also, plenty of tears and threats and biblical level admonishments. But now. Wait. Hold on. I’ve got to focus. That guy is asking me something. “Uh, we do; we give this woman, this incredible woman, to this man.”

Story #6

Beau slid to a stop at the women on the porch, tipping his hat solemnly. The rodeo clown sat at their feet, babbling. Incoherent, a new word from school. He raced to the gate, leading the donkey out of the stall. He made sure none of the herd—pace—got out. “Alright, girl,” Beau grunted. It was his first try—attempt—at bareback. “Come on, Donna!” As he spun wildly across the sidewalk, one woman raised her eyebrows. “Donna?” The other sighed as her son flailed a long piece of twine behind him. “Some kids have imaginary friends. Mine has a donkey named Donna.”

Story #7

The night he died, I dreamt of a tree. He was the trunk, and I was one of the twelve branches spread above him while each of my siblings was another off to the side. Most of the branches were razors, cutting any who came close; all were twisted, gnarled, and burned. I could see where my branch could have grown, were it not for the damage that forced it into its deformed shape. I turned to look at his smiling face, so proud of the tree he’d grown.
“Was it worth the price?” I asked.
“What price?” he replied.

Story #8

Friction fills my fiction,
    Testing my diction.
I usually write in prose,

    It flows.
When I wanted to hear the child inside,
    I began to write in Rhyme.
I enjoyed the time.
    Was that a crime?
But, Poor Pampered Prose does not like sharing, not one bit!
    Which means Rhyme doesn’t fit.
What is a writer to do?
    Choose between the two?
Or quit?

Story #9

Mabel on the Table

I drink in the scent of formaldehyde and preserve it in my mind. The aroma brings me
back to another place and time. I savour the memories of the dead and how the scalpel slides
across their flesh. The body of Mabel, cold and stiff, lay spread on the table; apart from her
intestines, rearranged. I held her hand in mine, her skin crawling back from her pink fingertips
and withdrawing from the human race. I cling to the human body in admiration of its artistic
intricacies. I visualise the portal that an incision spawns, and I hide before dawn.