We all admired Stevie Wilkins.
As our group approached the dreaded four-oh, we had all embraced the great wheel of life and found our little cogs. We had lawyers, a senior partner in a well to do accounting firm, a realtor who seemed impervious to the whims of the economy, and even a big time doctor, little Jimmy Tann, who, admittedly, had left the group and moved out to Chicago. We only heard from him a couple days before Christmas when he sent a group text wishing everyone well. We didn’t really like little Jimmy Tann anymore.
Even I had managed to amount to something, despite my meager BA in history. Tooth and fucking claw, mind you, but I had managed to carve out a niche that kept the wolves from the door and the wine well-stocked on the shelf.
Continue reading ‘The Tree Poacher’
This one was completed in 1993, and as you follow my retarded novel project you’ll see that I stole my own characters and storyline, which goes a long way towards proving that I only have one story to tell.
Continue reading ‘Sunday Archive: In This Darkness, Part One’
This is the mundane power of a name. A thing they call you, and when they say it, you turn your head. Whether you turn toward them to acknowledge or turn away, keep shuffling forward as if you didn’t hear, it doesn’t matter. A name is a tug on a leash.
This is the enduring flow of a name. The source can be the slightest spark of imagination inside a kid’s head, just one look at you and he makes some connection in that underfed brain of his, somewhere in that primordial muck of cartoons and big daddy’s drunk talk. And when it pops out of his mouth, everyone else picks it up and spreads it around because, however clever or inane it is, it’s catchy—quick and apt. Toss it around the playground, make sure everyone knows. And, years later, when everyone’s forgotten that afternoon when you first got your common name, when whatever was on your birth certificate got erased and redrawn in scrawling, elementary letters, when all aspects of that day—falling, scattered leaves, tough rubber ball, the scrape of girls’ shoes on the pavement—have faded only one thing will remain. Intangible as it is, they grip it tight like a ticket, their admission into the culture. A name is the longest unit of time.
Ghost, he called you.
Continue reading ‘Swallow Your Tongue’