Category Archives: Writing

Excerpt, continued

“Love,” her doctor assured her, “is a very popular word.” She sat in the office with its impersonal tan walls and medical equipment—here is that funny thing that squeezes your arm to take your blood pressure, here is the stethoscope,

Excerpt, continued

“Love,” her doctor assured her, “is a very popular word.” She sat in the office with its impersonal tan walls and medical equipment—here is that funny thing that squeezes your arm to take your blood pressure, here is the stethoscope,

Excerpt, edited

His window faced the other windows in the building. Very little light filtered in, just enough brightness to tell a change from night to day, and vice versa. Otherwise, he couldn’t tell you if it were sunny, if it were

Excerpt, edited

His window faced the other windows in the building. Very little light filtered in, just enough brightness to tell a change from night to day, and vice versa. Otherwise, he couldn’t tell you if it were sunny, if it were

Excerpt

He’d spent a lot of time picking the restaurant. He couldn’t forget the way her eyes gleamed the first time he took her to a nice restaurant, the way she sat down quietly, afraid to upset the stuffing in the

Excerpt

He’d spent a lot of time picking the restaurant. He couldn’t forget the way her eyes gleamed the first time he took her to a nice restaurant, the way she sat down quietly, afraid to upset the stuffing in the

The Witching Hour

I used to write–a lot. Perhaps it was simply a derivative of the fact that I loved to read. Roald Dahl was always a childhood favorite. He wrote about the witching hour, those late, quiet hours of the night, when

The Witching Hour

I used to write–a lot. Perhaps it was simply a derivative of the fact that I loved to read. Roald Dahl was always a childhood favorite. He wrote about the witching hour, those late, quiet hours of the night, when

For Thursday, a poem

–for some reason, wordpress didn’t keep my original line arrangement. Ah, well. Hot off the press, my friends, freshly written in a taxi this morning to work. The Last Day The sand in Hainan is white, the color of the

For Thursday, a poem

–for some reason, wordpress didn’t keep my original line arrangement. Ah, well. Hot off the press, my friends, freshly written in a taxi this morning to work. The Last Day The sand in Hainan is white, the color of the