Thom Gabrukiewicz

Soul Trade

2026-02-03T11:11:00.009-05:00

It happens more than you’d think, especially in a shitty economy.

One day you’re standing on a dingy street corner watching the gray snow melt and smoking a butt and dreaming of a hot meal or maybe a small bag of weed to get you through the day. But in reality, that vision is fractured by the 38 cents in your pocket and the realization that your last girlfriend kicked your sorry ass out a week ago and your best bud has cooled to the idea of crashing on the sticky hide-a-bed in his living room.

Since you’ve burned two holes in the ratty thing.

All of a sudden there’s a tall guy standing next to you, smoking a cigar and cloaked in this massive black duster, its sheen mute, like it’s been soaked in oil, and he’s stomping these bulky black combat coots like he’s cold.

He’s not cold. He’s looking for attention. And he wants it from you.

He speaks and it makes your skin crawl just a bit, since it sounds like background noise from a beat-up speaker, or an echo, but gravelly and off-putting.

“Hard times, friend?” he asks.

“It’s tough all over, man.”

“Perhaps I may be of some small assistance,” he says, drawing heavy on the cigar. “Have I got a deal for you.”

And on the spot, down on your luck, you sell your soul.

Not for a price that’ll really get you anywhere, anyhow.

Dude moves off you – how the hell did we get this deep in the alley? – and it’s gone. Poof, vanished, like a fart in the wind. You’ve got a few bucks in your pocket, a crumpled receipt jammed in your fist, plus a copy of the contract, with its tiny print – and your signature. In blood, for chrissakes.

There’s an immediate emptiness, a feeling you can’t shake. Like tonguing that open spot where your molar used to be, but isn’t.

Just then you realize you’ve made one of those life-altering mistakes. Like maybe you’re going to need that soul to get to heaven, if that’s your goal.

So crazy with sweat, you read the contract and find that there is a 24-hour cool-off period. But to get the thing back, there’s this weird scavenger hunt that’s going to be tough to complete in the time allotted.

And stay out of lockup at county. ‘Cause there’s things on that list to accomplish that if you had a soul, well let’s just say there would be some searching.

But the money helps and you’re coming to the end of the deadline walking down a wide boulevard with a backpack full of shit and you see it. Your soul. It’s in an old peanut butter jar, looking all flaccid and fatty. A veiny, slightly yellowed lump that’s flecked with blood. It looks as forlorn as you feel.

It sits amid a bunch of stuff for sale on a stained quilt spread out on the street, near a bunch of broken clocks and mounds of junk. Just like the shit you’ve got stuffed in your backpack. Really.

And there’s the dude, leaning on a wrought iron fence, blowing smoke rings.

“Problem, friend?”

“Big fucking problem, man,” you say with all the bravado you can muster. “Gonna need my soul back.”

“Get everything on the list?” he asks, picking shreds of tobacco off his lips. “Exactly in the order they were presented?”

“All here, asshole.”

He plugs his mouth with the cigar and nods and hums as he goes through the pack.

“Contract?”

He pulls the contract from the duster and smoothes it out on his thigh. He grips it tight on both ends and in his scarred hands, the dried-blood signature turns all oozy and drips from the parchment. He picks up the jar, gives your soul a giggle and hands it to you.

“Going to take a priest or a shaman to get that back in,” he says and whips a business card at my chest. “This guy’s good. But it’s going to cost you. And I know a guy who does loans of this nature, in exchange for some part-time employment.”

And that’s how you find yourself on some shitty street corner, stomping your feet in these ridiculous combat boots, trying to get the attention of the skinny chick with the drug itch and the far-off gaze.

You’re dressed in a dark black duster, it’s sheen mute like its been soaked in oil, a pad of contracts in the pocket.

Twenty Down

2025-02-14T13:03:00.007-05:00

“You know, I think I prefer sex in the afternoon.”

She’s sitting next to me on the couch, my wife, the woman who has been with me for the past 21 years. She’s doing the Times Sunday crossword, an endeavor that usually takes up to three days to complete. OK, so, she’s prone to fits and starts. But what she lacks in organization skills, she fully makes up in conviction.

“Beg pardon?”

She’s bouncing the rubber eraser end of a No. 2 pencil between her teeth as she scans the squares of the crossword and contemplates the right word for the spaces. The pencil makes a nagging, click-click-click sound against her exquisitely white teeth.

“Sex. In the afternoon. I think it’s my most favorite time.”

She looks up from the quarter-folded newspaper and meets my perplexed face.

I look at my watch. It’s 3:12 p.m.

Her face goes flush, the pink of her cheeks turn ruddy.

These are my most favorite times to be with her. In bed, a tangle of sheets, warm and wet in places, a sheen of sweat in our hair and on our brows. Entwined, idle, a time in-between the frenetic pace of our congress and the flow of ordinary life.

She’s still breathing hard and her chest is a flushed ‘V’ from the neck down. I think it looks like a sunburn, and I open my mouth to say so, but keep the comment to myself. She’s self-conscious about her body and how it reacts to sex - still - and I don’t want her to retreat from my arms for a wet towel to clean herself up. Not just yet.

Our lives can wait. The ordinary parts, anyway.

I rub my hand over her hip and across her butt. I let my finger trace the exposed flesh and she moves to complain, so I retreat the hand to her hip and wait for her to let her guard down. Again. So I can slip my hands south again, between her thighs. Touching her, well, let’s just leave that one to the imagination, shall we?

Dusk is in full blossom as she nestles into the crook of my neck. Her hair is a snarl of curls and it tickles, but I don’t move. Nor complain. She smells of cinnamon, sweat, sex and a hint of the expense perfume I get her each Christmas. I part the wave of curls, take a taste of her neck, then a nibble and finally, I take a taste of her wonderful earlobe. She moans ever so slightly. And an elbow comes out of sheets, all angled and bony, and hits me just below the armpit. She’s wearing a smile when I look at her.

“You’re impossible,” she says.

“Incorrigible.”

“Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

“Ouch.”

What age has stripped me of sexual frequency has more than made up for a certain patience and durability. She has no complaints; none that I am aware of, anyway. This is just our shtick, our banter.

The dog barks, meaning one of the kids is home, and life comes flooding back into the hushed darkness of our bedroom. She sighs, lifts her legs off mine and stands, retrieving her panties from the spot on the floor where I removed them somewhat violently.

“Since when do you like sex in the afternoon?”

“Since that time when we brought Elsa home from the hospital after her tonsillectomy and she was so looped on pain meds and you fairly attacked me in the bathroom. I had a half-moon bruise on my ass from the sink for a week.”

I put a hand to my lips and ponder. A moment 13 years into our past.

“And you never said anything to me until today?”

“Well, no. Today was when I got the clue.”

“Clue?”

“Twenty down, ‘Highly sought of.’ ”

“Uh-huh?”

“Adored, silly.”

This Year

2025-01-03T11:19:00.004-05:00

Here's a slight slip of poetry for your first few days of 2025:

This Year

Less than 72 hours old,

This year already feels like the past,

When we struggled to find the words.

There was hope,

In those first few moments after midnight,

When the lights went dim and we went to bed.

We woke up to uncertainty,

And put on brave faces,

And told ourselves we would be better.

Then life stirs, as it always does,

And good intentions begin to dim,

Even as we say all the right things.

You said to me, “It’ll be worth it,”

And I said to you, “We can do this,”

This year will be our year.

A Fiction in 58 - Breakfast of Champions

2023-03-07T15:45:00.000-05:00

“Is it OK to put Bailey’s on my cereal?”

The morning’s alarm went off 42 minutes ago, and we’re both showered and shaved (legs for her, face for me).

The coffee’s going cold, but we’ve yet to eat; too many text messages, emails - emergencies - from work.

“Bailey’s over what cereal?”

“Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Duh.”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

Mass Transit

2023-02-14T16:50:00.006-05:00

I heft my way up the sticky rubber steps of the No. 47 downtown bus, pay the fare and turn down the aisle.

There’s a chimpanzee in the middle seats, the orange plastic ones that face the aisle. He’s wearing a charcoal Loro Piana three-button suit, ice-blue French-collared shirt, corn silk-colored tie with flecks of tiny fleur-de-lis patterns in azure.

He’s gnawing on what looks like a large thigh bone. Slick, bloody pieces of connective tissue and lumpy yellowed fat hang from it.

The only open seat is directly across from the chimp. On approach, I notice he’s gone gray in the muzzle and the fur directly under his ears.

I sit, avert my gaze, and end up in intense study of the men’s underwear ad above the opposite window.

Until he starts to use his teeth to scrape gristle off the bone’s ball joint. It is efficient. It is creepy.

I turn to stare. It’s just…instinctive.

“What?” he huffs, and slaps the bone onto a wad of greasy brown paper optimized to cover a beautiful, butterscotch-colored goatskin attaché. “Everyone knows chimpanzees are omnivorous.”

I roll my eyes and meet the heated, angry gaze of my fellow passengers.

Wishing Well

2023-02-09T11:18:00.001-05:00

My mother has built a wishing well in our backyard.

She began with the crap-covered cement birdbath and ran a hose to it. She then hooked up a little sprinkler that shot water like a mini-geyser. She accentuated the birdbath with a collection of fired clay pots to collect the spray, as well as the change she kept tossing – one coin at a time.

I ditch my bike by the picnic table and went in for closer inspection.

She’s plucking the coins out of a wide-mouth Mason jar and pitching them into the fountain with her thumb, stretched out as she was on a chaise lounge under a blue-and-white striped beach umbrella. She has on this ridiculous white satin one-piece bathing suit. Her brown eyes are hidden by these white sunglasses, with hideous pink palm trees built into the chunky plastic frames.

She’s painted her toes and fingernails a fiery red, like the coating of a carnival candied apple. A floppy, wide-brimmed hat covered her raven hair. She was really playing up the glamor aspect, much to my horror.

Thank goodness for the line of thick shrubs that separated our lawn from the rest of the neighborhood.

Since coming out the backdoor is my dad, his hair slicked back and surprisingly jet-black, showing none of his natural gray. He has on black Wayfarers and no shirt. He’s a towel over one arm, and a fruity drink in his right hand, which is complete with a ginormous pink paper umbrella.

What is most disturbing is the enormous bulge in the front of the rather tight, light green Janzen swim trunks.

“Mother!”

She drew down the shades from her eyes and winks.

“Why, it’s a lady’s prerogative to always wish big.”

The Door

2023-02-07T12:48:00.001-05:00

Everything is going swimmingly.

The appetizers have just arrived, quail with pomegranate, pine nut and Romanesco for her, the Iberico croquettes with smoked saffron aioli for myself, and we toast the arrival with the 2017 Rossignol-Trapet pinot noir.

Everything is as it should be.

Then the tremor hits, and my left hand shakes violently. The fork slips through my fingers and lands with a “tang” on the wabi-sabi inspired concrete floor. She looks at me, a mix of sadness and regret. I take my eyes off her, and stare at the fork, which lies tines-down on the floor, flecks of aioli, orangish-yellow, paint the floor like a work of modern art.

I can’t breathe.

I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I turn back to her, and she’s trying to ignore me, sipping her wine in profile, legs crossed, the first two fingers of her left hand graze her cheek, which has turned pinkish-red from embarrassment.

I whip my eyes back to the fork, which is now vibrating with such violence that it’s hard to actually tell it is a fork.

Bile rises into my throat. Pressure builds behind my eyes; I feel like they are bulging, like some bad-animation cartoon. Things feel like they’re about to explode when the waiter covers the fork with a crisp linen napkin.

“Perhaps the gentleman would like to freshen up before the main dishes arrive?”

Ah, the main dishes. Casarecce pasta in a spicy Sicilian garlic and anchovy sauce with kale, Calabrian chilies and Pecorino Romano cheese for her; and for me, the “Fabada Asturiana” – a whole pig plate of roast loin, chorizo, confit and bacon in white bean and tomato stew.

I’m sweating. Profusely. Cartoonish, even. She’s even more embarrassed, and has taken to presenting her back completely to me. The waiter looks slightly pained/slightly amused.

I am confused by this.

“Sir, perhaps the time is right for you to exit through the door toward the back.”

I wobble as I rise, legs unsure of their place under my weight. My napkin tumbles to the floor. She doesn’t acknowledge my presence. The waiter grabs my elbow, twists me toward the back of the restaurant and launches me forward. One foot in front of the other, I make my way past the open kitchen, down a narrow hallway, where I come face-to-face with a giant metal door.

The door has no business being in a three-star Michelin restaurant; it’s spray painted black and covered in graffiti. I squeeze my eyes tight, open them, and blink rapidly. I take a hold of the knob and turn, but the door doesn’t open out. I turn the knob again and press forward. There’s a whoosh of air, blinding white light, unconsciousness.

And I’m in my bed. The dog raises her head, then lays back down. My wife shifts her weight ever so slightly, sighs.

In the darkness, I can just make out the door, but it seems to be fading into the night. Just like my memory.

Just before the door disappears completely, a crack of light - ever so slight - emerges. And a disembodied voice whispers.

“We humans tend to misremember the critical details, that’s why we have dreams. To reset them.”

We're Awake

2023-02-03T12:04:00.004-05:00

Rumpled sheets, warm from a night of sleep, envelope her body completely. It’s still dark, winter’s cold light of day has yet to seep through the blinds. He’s partial to a lighter covering, like a loin cloth of the comforter over just his privates, which leaves his chest, shoulders and legs open to the crisp night air.

She stretches, flips from he back to her side and scoots her warmth toward him. Her hand reaches out, exploring, searching - yearning - through the folds of a top sheet, the two blankets they employ in the winter.

“Where are you?”

He slides a hip in her direction, brings the comforter his chest, opens the top sheet with an elbow and she envelopes him, legs into his, her chest on his, her head nestles into the soft space of his neck.

He can still smell last night’s Tiger Balm on her shoulder, the place where he tried to rub away all the tensions of the week; the scent, he decides, is soothing, something between a Christmas candle and the crist-mint of menthol. He starts rubbing her tension spot all over and she mews, softly, and tosses a tangle of auburn hair across his face. It tickles his nose, and he tastes her conditioner, which reminds him of sunshine - bright citrus, warm spice. He lets a puff of air go, and she laughs, shakes her locks for effect.

And his phone lights up the dim, the first notes - jarring guitar over pounding drums - of Reverend Horton Heat’s cover of the theme from “Jonny Quest” - his favorite childhood Saturday morning cartoon - fills the air.

“Nine more minutes,” she says, tossing an arm across this chest, squeezing tight.

A New Fiction in 58

2023-02-01T16:03:00.004-05:00

I do a thing called "Fiction in 58;" 58 words, no more, no less. Writer's Digest has a writing prompt going on in February, one a day, for flash fiction. Today, "Favorite Song." OK.

A Wash of the Senses
I’m pissed.
It’s 2023, and if it isn’t inane arguments of a polarized society on social media, it’s another mass shooting, or some kid getting beaten to death by the cops.
There’s one thing to do.
Turn out the lights.
And let the Stooges wash over me.
“I'm a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm…”

The Fate of the Recently Unemployed

2022-01-28T09:31:00.006-05:00

After a dozen years, I am suddenly, and unexpectedly, let go of my job breaking in leather gloves for men with exceptionally large hands.

As the debris began to clear (in my brain) from this untimely turn of events, I was left with not so much to do, so I tracked the numbers, read all I could from the internet and was finally able to corroborate the findings: We are descended from not one line, but several lines of ancestors so when each is examined, our fate is sealed to one of these divergent lineages.

On a recent occasion, I pussyfoot into an exhibit at the Guggenheim; up and down a curving corridor, there are all these miniature sculptures made out of papier-mâché, and painted in such ungodly colors - and not a single figure looks remotely human.

I did, however, enjoy the rosé Champagne in those little plastic Champagne flutes, as well as the cubed cheese stabbed in the center with toothpicks, each a festive variety of colored cellophane.

Alas, I didn’t stay long; there were way too many police officers looking for someone who fit my general description.

Pencils

2022-01-07T14:05:00.003-05:00

He flipped open the metallic lid of a new boxed set of Staedtler sketching pencils - the one with 12 Mars Lumograph pencils, 8B to 2H - and a flood of warm, earthy fragrance filled his nostrils, hitting his brain, which triggered an expanse of memories from childhood.

Mother worked for an architect, and it was his task to walk from junior high to the architect’s downtown office, which was perched above a women’s clothing store, of all things, and wait until 5 p.m. so they could go home.

The office was spartan, just a desk where his mother sat, and another room set off to the right (storefront side) that was dimly lit, save for the natural light that spilled from the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows (three of them) and the twin architect lamps, both black, that were attached to the twin drafting tables that faced one another (the architect’s apprentice worked three days a week, and only until noon, so as not to interrupt his studies).

The architect used mechanical pencils of course, stylish metal things with lead he shook from slender plastic tubes and loaded into the pencil’s barrel that was accessed by popping off a silver cap and then removing the tiny soft white eraser he never used, since scattered about on his table were large rectangles of soft white’s in various stages of decay.

After a snack Mother provided from a gigantic closet she had to access by going out of the office and into the hallway (Lance Toast Chee sandwich crackers with peanut butter), the architect allowed him to do his homework on the apprentice's drafting table, and when he finished the architect would have him practice writing in architectural lettering - those uniform, easy-to-read block letters that architects established so as to not have costly construction errors from contractors reading blueprints - with his very own mechanical pencil gifted to him the previous Christmas.

Two weeks before the Christmas of 1973, he ate his crackers in Mother’s office, washed his hands and went to “his” drafting table to practice his letters (to this day, he no longer knows how to write the cursive the nuns taught him at Catholic elementary school - well, save for his signature), and there on the table was a small gift, wrapped in blueprint, of course. The architect nodded for him to open it, and he ripped into it as if it was Christmas morning.

And the heady smell of freshly sawed wood and lead filled his head. His own box of Straedtlers, the Mars Lumographs, blue-painted barrel, black tip (no erasers), the 24-pack (!) 12B to 10H already sharpened to perfection and ready to touch paper.

“I think it’s time,” the architect said, “that you move past lines and block letters and draw the world as you see fit.”

Paperback Novel

2021-10-06T18:03:00.003-04:00

I wake in a nondescript room and by the looks of it - a lit cigarette gloom and streaks of neon light pulsating through the drapes - I've come to in a cheap motel somewhere near the airport.

My hand is on fire.

The pinkie finger on my right hand is missing at the second knuckle; the stump has been cauterized by something very hot and metallic.

The steel bracelet of a handcuff circles my left wrist, the other bracelet dangles open like a fishhook.

Spread across the other double bed is an arresting redhead, her hair swept over her face, her feet dangle off the bed. Crimson lipstick is smudged like a bruise across one cheek.

I get up and put two fingers to her neck, and breathe a sigh of relief when I find the rhythmic thump of a pulse.

Slumped in the shoddy motel chair is the body of a man. By the looks of it, he’s built like a fireplug; squat, well-muscled. He’s dressed in a cheap, shiny suit. There’s a wicked, ragged hole open at his temple. Dried blood makes a Rorschach pattern across the drapes, and all I can see in it is trouble.

There’s no need to check for a pulse, this guy’s dead.

The redhead on the bed stirs, arches her back, rakes slim fingers through the tangle of hair.

“Nikolai,” she purrs. “Baby, come back to bed.”

My name is not Nikolai.

I wake with a nudge to the ribs, in my Temperpedic bed with a paperback novel spread across my chest.

“Baby,” my wife says, “you were snoring again.”

A new Six Sentence - Friday Night

2021-10-01T15:11:00.000-04:00

My friend, Rob McEvily, hosts a blog for writers called Six Sentences (6S).

“It’s simple. Just write six sentences. Say anything you like. Six Sentences uses a paragraph format. Six consecutive sentences. No poems, no bullets. Be unconventional if using dialogue. Again, say anything you like, and tell a friend. Peace.”

The last time I penned a 6S was February 20, 2011. So, here’s a new one:

Friday Night

We were singing, the both of us, mostly show tunes and we were definitely off-key and off-kilter. There was no musical accompaniment, no Spotify or TV as backup, just my baritone to your soprano in all of its wobbly goodness. The vodka bottle was three-fifths gone, and the candlelight made kinetic shadow puppets against the walls as we danced and wailed through “Anything You Can Do” from Annie Get Your Gun. I forgot the words along about the partridge and the cartridge line, but you just kept right on singing - and dancing in tight concentric circles. You stopped, all of a sudden, and yelled at the top of your lungs, “Martinis are lubricants for the rich - and we must eat the rich;” and then in a soft, giggly whisper, “A screwdriver, por favor, a proper drink for a lady of my stature.” And I knew right then that I loved you even more than I had just moments before.

One World

2021-08-19T12:07:00.002-04:00

I shuffle down to dinner, expecting to suffer through another meal where my parents mine me for information about my day - while they ignore one another.

Instead, I hear laughter and a hum that I can only describe as “chattering.”

I bounce down the stairs, loud as can be expected to announce my presence. I stop, mid-landing.

Around the dining room table are six children, a bit younger than I, piling their plates high with one of mom’s overblown feasts.

Each has a different skin color than our own and each jabbers in a language I don’t understand.

“What’s all this?” I ask, as I slide into my usual spot at the table.

“We’re celebrating,” dad says, pretending to walk turkey legs across the table and onto a plate of a little dark-skinned girl - her raven hair braided into pigtails, with what looks like feathers and shells woven in - and a boy with black hair and pale skin that’s kinda yellow.

As I take my seat, the boy next to me tugs on my shirtsleeve. His hair is a tight weave of curls and his skin the color of dark roast coffee. His smile is a picket fence of teeth, mostly missing. He’s trying to pass me a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes.

“Kula, kula,” he says, motioning to his mouth with two fingers and his thumb.

I roll my eyes and get up to leave.

My mother walks behind me and puts her hands on my shoulders and pushes - ever so gently - downward.

“I think it’s obvious that he wants you to join us to eat - and to give thanks for this meal we’ve prepared,” she says, as her grip tightens into my shoulder muscles. “You could at least try and be civil.”

The boy laughs and hands me the potatoes, from which I plop a mound and make a reservoir with the spoon, to hold mom’s gravy, which is in the wobbly hands of a reddish-skinned girl who has a red dot painted on her forehead. Mom’s is the best gravy in the entire world - and I’m spying this girl hard. She sets the bowl at my elbow, takes a healthy scoop and pours a ladleful of deliciousness perfectly into the potato reservoir. Before I can thank her, she pops the ladle into the gravy, then proceeds to cradle my face with her delicate hands.

“Tum dhany ho,” she says, nearly a whisper. “Tum dhany ho.”

I look confused. Dad smiles. Mom puts her chin in her hands and nods.

“You are blessed,” she says.

And I burst into real, honest-to-god tears of joy.

An Existential Life

2021-07-20T16:49:00.007-04:00

He wore his hair close-cropped to his head; the gray was concentrated in the sideburns, which he neither kept too long or too short, and just right at the temples.

It was a sweet, silver-colored gray. His father, who was still alive and now dating, had a full head of silver hair – as silky and flowing as mercury – that was as distinguished a color as the silverback gorilla at the zoo. Hairstylists a third his age clamored to cut and shape his mane every three weeks.

Of course, he would lose his hair, in the end.

His mother, who also was still alive, but living in Bar Harbor, Fla., was born of a man who lost every follicle of his reddish-blond hair as a young man. And he knew that the baldness gene comes not from the paterfamilias, but his mother’s side. And that the bald he will become will be the waxy head kind of bald, with a tight, sculpture-garden weave of hair a half-inch to the top of his left ear around the crown of his head to one-quarter above the right ear. He thinks that this will not be a good look, and has started to wear hats in public.

He does not grow his beard anymore in the winter months; it now comes in white and feeble-looking, like the men who play chess at the YMCA and bitch about the tepid coffee served in little Styrofoam cups, with powdered creamer, imitation sugar in pink packets and cheery-red stir-sticks.

He opts for the under-chin goatee, what the French would call a “petite goatee” or “chin scruff” sported by skate punks and certain, pimple-faced grocery baggers.

On him, he thought, it looks regal, more like Freud and less like the greasy grocery clerk, who still can’t seem to tell the difference between paper and plastic, even though you bring your own African-weave, Earth-friendly cotton handbag to the store as a show of consciousness and shit.

That’s OK. He’s trying to “fit in.” Be part of what he hopes is a global community, in an “it takes a village” moment. Hey, it’s an ethos.

The bagger neither smiles, nor nods, nor acknowledges his existence – in so much as in philosopher Franz Brentano’s view of life, you know, logic, for logic’s sake. Or, more succinct, he is part of the existential quantifier, which asserts the existence of some object with certain properties.

He is a man. He is wise.

He is a wise man.

Secretly, however, he yearns to be an existentialist.

He wants nothing more than to create his own meaning, his own essence of life.

And skip the absurd.

Aftermath - A Fiction in 58

2021-07-02T11:52:00.002-04:00

Way back when I started writing flash fiction again, I came up with a way to challenge myself - write a cohesive story in 58 words. And Fiction In 58 was born. I'm still working on a slew of magazine pieces for work, so I'm returning to this challenge.

Aftermath

A tangle of sheets, not enough cover, heat radiates, knocks back the chill of the night.

Sweat cools on flesh, smiles tucked into warm curves. There’s small talk, in whispers like someone will overhear.

He watches her nod off, listens as quick breaths ease into measured cadence.

He slips off, too, sheltered in the passion generated between them.

Now & Then

2021-06-25T12:10:00.004-04:00

Naked save for cowboy boots, a BB gun and gasoline, The boy does not seek out trouble, just the experience.

Impish and carefree, he pushes through life, takes it in, breathes it, like the very air that fills his lungs.

The boy ages and life begins its march to overtake. There’s fear that seeps in, like afternoon shadows on sidewalks. Doubt splashes against the boy’s mischievous, yet tender, soul - with hesitation, sick waves of trembled black indecision.

A life so near to him is snuffed out too early, A moment where all his heart's hope would be lost. The man retreats into himself to seek the answers, and finds the strength at moment’s end to grasp salvation.

The man remains imperfect, and still searches for meaning, But with the single-mindedness intent to make up for time lost.

And there are days, sunny and golden, when he conjures up the boy, the impish one, the one full of joyous tomfoolery.

Psychic Vampire

2021-06-18T11:00:00.005-04:00

COVID-19 nearly killed me.

Oh, not in the way you think. Not in a I-can’t-breathe-I’m-on-a-ventalator kinda way. Not in a I-can’t-taste-my-food sorta way, either.

I couldn’t feed properly. I nearly starved to death.

Long story short, I’m what some people call - wrongly, I might add - an emotional vampire. I take a little bite out of you, and go on my merry way - but not in the way you might have read about on WebMD or in Psychology Today. And, for the record, I don’t actually bite.

But Google “emotional vampire” and you’ll find all sorts of pop science, psycho-babble crap bullshit.

For example: I don’t suffer from low self esteem. I do not need constant attention. My life is not in constant crisis.

I do not crave incessant validation. In fact, I’m really quite gregarious. Well, when I’m feeding in regular intervals, and the food supply is plentiful.

I prefer the term “psychic vampire;” if, of course, you want to insult all the real vampires out there. But let’s go with it, and leave it right there.

Yes, I do feed off the “life force” of other creatures; I do not argue or belittle the point. I increase my energy, my life force, by siphoning off a little of yours. Just think of it as unburdening some of your anxiety, laughter, joy, trepidation, sadness - whatever emotion you’re feeling at the time - to keep me happy and healthy. And sure, after we talk, you’ll probably feel a little tired. A little drained. But that’s it, really. No harm, no foul.

And I do appreciate the boost, from each and every one of you. And I do speak for all the rest of us (because there’s more of us than you think). We thank you for your service.

We’re fairly easy to spot, just so you know. We’re out there, all around, all the time. Everywhere there’s a crowd.

You know the type: The single guy on a business trip at the next table at the restaurant who strikes up a conversation with you over what’s the best plate of food in this place? The girl at the dog park who compliments you on how behaved your dog is, then talks your ear off about the benefits and pitfalls of an all-raw diet and what does a raw diet mean, anyway? We’re the couple (who says psychic vampires can’t hunt in pairs?) who sit behind you at the community concert in the park, and offer to share our cheese board and slightly fruity Pinot Grigio and by the way, where did you get those cute sandals?

But COVID-19, am I right? We can’t feed over Zoom or Google Meet. There’s no way to unburden some energy over the phone, a text or through WhatsApp. We need that close connection. The idle conversation. We have to be close, you know? So thank God for all the mask mandates, which made it a little bit easier to get a slip of nourishment at the gas station or the grocery store.

Just imagine the silly prompts we had to come up with. For example:

“Can you believe Governor (INSERT NAME HERE) extended the COVID health orders again? When are we ever going to get back to normal, do you think?”

“I don’t mean to pry, but where did you get your mask? I love to fish and your fish mask is just killer.”

“Excuse me, where did you find those King’s Hawian hamburger buns? They look amazing.ly delicious.”

“Looks like gas prices are on the rise again - think we’re going to be paying $5 a gallon by 2022?”

I’m forward enough that I’ve made ends meet. So to speak. But yeah, I know some of us who passed. They blamed it on the COVID, of course. But it was pure, unadulterated starvation.

Those of us who survived, we cheered when the vaccination train got its full head of steam. I remember getting my first dose, having to wait in this open bullpen for 15 minutes to make sure we didn’t stroke out or have some sort of psychotic episode from being sticked (stuck?).

Pure. Bliss. I mean it.

People were out. They were getting vaccinated. And they were talkative. I went home full as a tick on a deer.

However…

It’s not been all feasting, all the time. Let’s let a little truth in here, shall we? People have lost a lot in this year-and-a-half of sheltering in place. A lot of different things. Human touch (which is like taking a life force shooter, by the way). Congregating in a place - concerts, restaurants, bars - the gym.

Emotion.

Seriously.

We lost our connection to the human world, since we had to communicate through a computer camera. We lost all the feels. And I hope - I pray - we get that back. Because, man, the alternative. I don’t want to even think about it.

I’m very lucky. I have a dog. She’s the best. And I took just enough of her life force to get by. Hey, I know it sounds seriously twisted. But she got extra pets. Extra treats. A little bacon grease in the morning kibble. Long walks on trails that were abandoned by humans. She was happy. I was happy. And I stayed alive. But I don’t want to have to rely on her for all of it.

I was in this bar the other night, listening to a band. It felt great. The atmosphere was electric (cliche, I know, but hey, give me a break). It was Friday night, some people were still wearing masks, but a lot were not. Everyone looked happy just to be out of the house.

And here’s the rub - everyone I talked to, even those who had a little too much to drink, it wasn’t, I mean, it didn’t nourish me. Hollow life force calories. Like eating a rice cake, if you know what I mean. I think it’ll get better once more and more people get the vax - and return to the streets.

I mean, it has to, right? We didn’t completely lose our way, our connections, did we?

Dreams

2021-06-11T11:35:00.005-04:00

No one ever says they want to be the homeless guy begging for change and digging through garbage cans for a half-eaten meal.

Nobody gets reincarnated as a janitor or a retail sales associate.

There isn’t anyone reinventing themselves as a fry cook or grocery stocker.

What dreams get formed in the gray matter are desires of the heart. The gut checks them, critical of the fancy.

What dreams come true? The ones that the gut says are attainable, or the big leaps that take real balls to complete?

A question for the ages.

Listen

2021-05-28T12:32:00.002-04:00

What do you know...out popped a poem this morning.

Listen

Lines of lyrical foolishness,

seep from a wounded heart.

Wither the angered poet,

who senses not what is there:

Orange-glow sunsets,

the laughter of children,

the scent of a lover,

wine upon the lips,

a rise of gooseflesh.

Consequence for what is forsaken,

screaming frustrations.

A quiet heart begs the answer:

shhhhh, listen.

A Moment of Clarity

2021-05-12T16:56:00.001-04:00

“Hold out your hand.”

“Close my eyes?”

“Only if you want to.”

And she drops a marble into his palm.

“Huh.”

“It’s a clarity marble.”

“Uh-huh.”

The marble is clear glass and it is scarred from the abuse inflicted on it being carried in purses and in the bottom of pockets. Its once smooth surface is heavily pitted, rough.

He looks through it and the light takes on a greenish glow, like the flesh of a honeydew melon. It is a tiny crystal ball, and he gazes through it between his thumb and forefinger.

“It’s always helped me.”

And he begins to carry it in the coin pocket of his jeans. During those moments of stress, he takes it out and looks through it. Yet it does not speak to him. He doesn’t tell her that he cannot hear its wisdom.

A sweltering night and not even a cool shower and fans bring comfort. He’s up when most everyone is not, his mind heavy. He clutches the clarity marble in his fist. The marble is as warm as her skin. He rolls the glass around in his fingers. He squeezes, tight. And wills its secrets. He prays for clarity.

He rolls the marble across his forehead, feeling the warmth. It’s her warmth. He knows this. And he feels it.. He closes his eyes and thinks of her.

And in that moment of comfort, he finds clarity.

Balloon, Man

2021-05-07T11:51:00.000-04:00

Flanked by his goofy yellow Lab, he stood in the rich green of his suburban lawn and with hands on hips, his head tilted.

There, anchored to the Kentucky bluegrass, was a piece of plastic. Tied to the plastic plug was a massive Mylar balloon floating on five feet of rough twine. Printed on its shiny silver surface was a festive “HAPPY 50TH” message with hearts, stars and candles.

He looked up and down the street, nearly identical three-bedroom, two-bath tract homes with pressed concrete drives and endless swatches of perfect lawn.

He looked back at the balloon, and in unison, his head, along with the Lab, tilted in confused wonderment that bordered on bewilderment.

He took a step toward the balloon and stopped. The dog circled it (but did not dare sniff) and returned to the man’s side. He looked down at the dog, and back to the balloon. He rubbed a hand across his lips, furrowed his brow.

And tuned to the home’s cheerfully decorated front porch and began to drag one of those silly, heavy wrought iron chairs across the concrete and into the lawn, the legs digging divots into the manicured green.

He sat and the dog took the signal and lay down beside him. He rested his chin in one cupped hand and rubbed fingers across Saturday stubble.

The balloon swayed in the breeze.

His neighbor passed, stopped, put a hand up to his eyes to shade them.

“Happy birthday, Rob. Fifty, huh, can that be right?”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“So what’s with the balloon?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“Huh,” his neighbor said, “OK, see ya.”

“Later.”

A half-hour passed. The balloon continued to sway on the breeze.

Neighbors passed with well-wishes. He responded with cryptic shrugs. He fetched a beer from the garage fridge, drank it. Mused about the balloon, it’s origin, it’s meaning.

Finally, he fished a hand into his cargo shorts, pulled out a pair of yellow-handled garden shears. He tapped them on his chin and rose.

And clipped the twine, sending the mass of Mylar skyward.

As the balloon rose, he saluted, crisply.

Cool Sadness

2021-04-30T10:31:00.006-04:00

The cool sadness is the worst. The near lack of feelings, the emptiness. You’d think that would be preferable to a veil of tears, but no. It’s like a capped bottle that life keeps shaking. It’s bound to burst, spewing a frothy flow over everything.

For now, it’s kept in. For how long? Yeah, that’s the question, isn’t it?

Friends text, message to ask if everything’s OK.

Yes. And no.

It's the cool sadness that disturbs everyone. Like a painting, a locked little smile, thin lips, maintain.

Nothing tastes good. Eat, drink, walk, talk, work, watch TV, sleep. Maintain. Everyone expects it. The banter, the smart-assed wisecracks, the one-liners.

It helps, being normal – or as normal as it gets. Function, find things to do. Don’t rush to any judgments. Not quite yet.

Find “silver linings.” Text, message back with heartfelt thanks. Be in the moment. Be positive. Exercise, eat right, avoid the booze.

Give this moment in time a chance. Learn, grow - let go. Let it all go. Live in the now.

Since that’s all we’ve got.

Goodness

2021-04-23T13:27:00.000-04:00

“There is goodness in you, even though you can’t see it,” she says.

The fork is halfway to his mouth, which is open for delivery, and he stops, a flush of hatred lights in his dull gray eyes.

He folds his hands together and tucks his chin on his knuckles; congealed egg yoke puddles under the fork, which now acts as a pendulum.

“Did I ask you for an assessment?”

The diner is cramped and it is packed; it’s a living organism that pulsates, breathes, sighs. It presses its mass into her, she feels faint, a victim of her own stupid choices.

He stares, smiles. Shoots bushy eyebrows into amused arcs that beg answers.

It's enough of an insult; his abuse emboldens her.

“No, you did not ask,” she says. “But I have opinions too, you know.”

Restless

2021-04-16T10:41:00.001-04:00

April is National Poetry month. Here's my contribution:

Restless

Wrapped in the silent dark, layers of gray, slivers of streetlights, the restless dreams of greatness.

In shadows lay desires, mindful of the consequence, change is a difficult beast.

A hand reaches for her torso, and settles upon the dimple of her hip.

A squeeze confirms consciousness, a sigh affirms the impatience.

There is no stillness.

Restless minds.

Restless hearts.

Restless lives.

Darkness ebbs in the gray.

Threads of light announce the dawn, another sleepless encounter passes.

One more day to screw on a happy face.