Circular Logic – A Short Story

I don’t answer the door. It’s an instinctive habit. Blake is at The Polis. He goes there for the fountains.

There is a disturbed young man who visits me in the afternoons. He likes to talk politics. It might be him. At the door I mean. But I can’t risk it.

I look at the magazine. It is next to the knife I used to cut my orange for breakfast. I stare at it and think of the ballet I attended the other night (and how the light in the car didn’t work so I couldn’t find my glasses).

There is Circular Logic. It only asks that I am obedient. It says if I obey then maybe. Maybe. Like a mom would when negotiating with her child a toy settlement. If he should be a good boy. For just a little bit at least okay. Just be a good boy.

I go to the bathroom medicine cabinet to get the rest of my whisky. There is another knock on the door and I get the same feeling that I have anytime someone responds to me.

I open my mouth to try to answer. Something like Go Away. Or Just Come In Already The Damn Thing Is Unlocked. But nothing comes out. So I pour my whisky sit on the toilet and drink instead.

Out the window there are some birds and electrical wires. The two are not connected. The birds are flying. They remind me of a girl at work who sometimes appears in the break room when I am there. She is cute. We have never spoken.

Finishing my drink I get up and get another and go to the front door and look out the peep-hole. There is no one there. I open the door to air out the house.

People are talking nearby. I can’t hear what they say. Circular Logic urges me to play Tony Bennett. I do though I don’t like him too much and lounge on the couch.

There was a story of aliens way out in space that I think about who invented an impulse drive that allowed them to be in two places at once. That way they did not have to leave their loved ones. I believe NPR reported it.

The young man disturbed of politics comes by and asks if he can come in. I don’t answer and just close my eyes. Circular Logic says I am being rude but I put on Tony Bennett for it so it doesn’t press the issue.

Disturbed comes in and takes one of my cigarettes. He is on a tear about the president. Or maybe on the national parks. It is kind of hard to follow what with Mr. Tony crooning and my general lack of interest. I fall asleep in hopes to avoid nausea. Blake should be back soon and he can sort everything out. He is always refreshed after visiting the fountains.

Buying a House – A Short Story

“So it is serious then?”

“Well, we bought a house.”

“Does it have a large lawn?”

“It does, yes.”

“Then that is serious. And fortuitous. Congratulations! I am sure the two of you will be very happy with long lives and whopping big children. Maybe they will all play basketball.”

“Thank you! But I am not sure about the basketball part. I am afraid we are both a little on the short end. And we like soccer better.”

“I would never have thought that. I mean, you I can see are, as you said, a bit on the small side. Though I would say petit would be a more suitable word. But him I vision a tall, masculine man with the grace of a cat. Like he was a lost child of Ginger Rodgers.”

“He is graceful. You have that right. But just not that tall. Actually, he pretty short.”

“A short, graceful man? You don’t say. Very peculiar.”

“And the back yard is large. The house, I mean. It has a large back yard.”

“And the front?”

“Quite small. Almost non-existent.”



“Well, there is something about a large back yard only. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say it would be perhaps a need to hide something.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I’m sorry, but yes. It is all very psychological. Who chose the house?”

“Well, we both did. But he found it.”

“Did he?”

“Yes, and he said I would love it.”

“Do you?”

“I did. But now I don’t know. What could he be hiding?”

“It is hard to tell. Maybe a past event. Perhaps a secret lover. Or it could be a behavior he wants to make sure is not found out. Not knowing him better, I cannot really say.”

“Oh, but it all sounds too awful no matter what it is. What a terrible position I have found myself in.”

“Yes, you might want to take care.”

“I will. I will. But I don’t know what to do. What would you suggest?”

“Well if it were me, I would make sure to keep him away from liquor. And monitor his computer use. Does he use his phone much?”

“All the time.”

“Yes, that would have to change too.”

“That all makes sense. Except the liquor. He never drinks.”


“No. He will not touch a drop. He is very astute and serious. And he says drinking causes him to bloat and have gas.”

“That does sound sensible on his part. If that is the case, I would have him start to drink. It could be the thing to open his defenses and start to root out all his hidden secrets.”

“Of course! What a brilliant plan. You are a genius, you know. I mean it. With how you style your hair and all. It is like you are George Orwell and Margaret Thatcher all in one.”

“You are too kind. Such a tender compliment as I respect both with the utmost of satisfaction.”

“What drink should I start with, do you think?”

“I would go with something light, subtle, and demanding. Not vodka. It is too brutal. Oh, I know! Tequila! Yes. Specifically margaritas. Those will tempt the demon from him.”

“I hope it is not too dastardly a demon. I don’t think my heart can take it.”

“Oh dear, I am sorry to say but dastardly or not your heart is not safe. Demons of any size feast on the human heart. I would rather it be a large demon to have my heart be devoured all at once, instead of slowly like those little shit ones will do.”


So this would be my second short story I have posted that is dialog only. They are fun and enjoyable to write. Sometimes I want to break in and add more narrative, or descriptions, but then I think it will spoil the story, so I keep myself in check. Hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading.

Stanley – A Short Story – Part I

The following is the beginning to a short story I wrote a while ago, but was unsatisfied with and never finished. I have revised the first part and am planning on doing the same to the rest and finally finishing it. I will be posting it in weekly installments as I finish each section. That is the plan at least. If I am able to get it in direction I like. So, hope you enjoy, and thank you for reading.

Stanley – Part I

Washing his hands, Stanley watches the water turn a piss colored yellow as it runs over them and into the basin. He wonders if something is wrong with his health. That maybe he should make a doctor’s appointment. He sticks his head under the faucet to wet his hair down. Likes how the heat of the water streaming out of the faucet contrasts with the cold that has seeped into the house with the overnight chill.

Drops trickle down his neck as he towel dries and then brushes his hair. He checks his reflection in the mirror. Something catches his eye. Perhaps it is a sudden flash of insight into some lingering desperation. But not being able to place it, he quickly dismisses it, pushes it out of his mind, and moves on to brushing his teeth.

Down the stairs he walks quietly so as not to wake up Sophie. He goes to his study and takes a gun out of his desk. A pistol with a dull black handle. He removes the clip and does a quick but meticulous inspection. Reloads it. Puts it in a holster at his breast.

From the family room he hears the TV turn on. Cartoons playing. His youngest son, Pete, has just woken up. Stanley says good morning to him as he passes by the room on his way to the front door. Pete does not reply. Stanley puts on his hat and coat and whistles for Baxley. The dog walks casually up to him, and they go outside.

An early morning frost tickles the air. Clings to the grass. Burns his lungs. He surveys his property from the front porch. A long stretch of tree covered hills in an area once populated by loggers. The nearest neighbor, Mike Rinaldi, is a quarter-mile downhill. A good distance. Mike is a mechanic who Stanley trusts, and they have become friends over the years. Both enjoy the rugged solitude of the area. And they both appreciate the good fishing found in the lake that borders their properties.

The Creature Wakes – A Short Story

Deep under the house, with its dark halls and rooms filled with the nostalgic talismans left by past occupants, the monster was woken. A creature whose shadow, hate and despair had years ago seeped down into the foundation and clung to the walls. With foul, venomous breath it infected the air as it took shape, grotesque and unseen. It rose, called by a desire to devour the love it felt had invaded its domain. Up the stairs it crept to the master bedroom and out to the balcony overlooking the long yard with its crumbling wall. There it spied the two girls playing near the fountain with their father sitting and writing at a table on the patio, and its heart was filled with an awful lust. But, as it lifted its gaze to the bordering woods, it saw a fox sitting in the shade of the trees. The fox’s eyes were fixed upon the creature with a curious smile twisting along its mouth. And the creature knew then the fox, yet it was too late to prepare a defense. Three piercing barks shot forth from the animal, and the creature felt its body dissipate in their wake. Its form shattered. However its spirit, potent and still dangerous, could not be undone, and it settled over and filled the house, hungering in the dark for death and disease. The fox, with a satisfied air about it, looked over to the girls, catching the older one’s gaze, and they became transfixed on each other

“Dad it’s a fox. Look!” the younger one yelled.

But before the dad could see the fox spun about and ran quickly off deep into the woods.



This is really a scene I wrote which is a part of The Deerfields, and both belong to a longer piece I am writing. To read The Deerfields, you can find it here:

Coffee and Crakers – A Short Story

“We are out of time and out of rice.”

“It’s no problem. I’ll just run out to the store.”

“No. No. It is a missed opportunity. The kids will be awake soon. And anyway my apron needs a washing.”

“You have at least a dozen aprons. Are they all in the laundry?”

“You are hopeless. We will never understand one another.”

“That’s true. We are too alike, perhaps. I didn’t really want to go to the store anyway.”

“Well at least the coffee is done brewing. We have that still don’t we? Would you like a cup? I have some fresh cream. And cherries.”

“Cherries just are not the same to me anymore. But I will take some coffee. Black please.”

He goes to the cupboard that smells of nutmeg. There is sugar and a loaf of bread, but he takes some crackers. They are dry and salty. She is thinking to herself, and it shows in the wrinkles by her eyes. Suddenly there is a knock on the door.

“Don’t answer it. I don’t think I can handle the news.”

“But what if it is only the postman trying to deliver a package?”

“Then he can leave a note.”

“But that is rather silly, isn’t it? I am sure he knows we are home.”

“It’s not the postman, and you know it.”

“I don’t care. I just want to drink my coffee and eat my crackers.”

“They will make you fat, you know.”

“Which one?”

“The hell with you. And that damn knocking. Fuck it. I am going to answer it. I cannot go back to sleep with all the coffee and excitement.”

“It is good to confront your fears. They help you to grow.”

“Fear keeps us safe, and makes us cowards. You more so than others. If you owned any type of bravery you would be the one answering the door.”

“But no longer be a coward. It would ruin your opinion of me, and then what would I be?”

“I don’t know. Something. Which is at least better than what you are now.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

She answers the door and it is James. He shuffles his feet and will not meet her eyes, stumbling about with his words like a madman, trying to find the most delicate way to speak with her. It was his fault, he says, or she translates from the confusing jumble.

“James, please.”

“But…my wife…kids, they are everything to me. Please, you must know. How do I put it? I have been a wreck. I can’t sleep with her anymore. I am on the couch. There is a TV nearby so I watch commercials at two in the morning. I feel like I am drowning.,,”

“James, seriously. You sound drunk. Are you? No, don’t answer. I don’t really care. But you are embarrassing yourself. This is all too much, and is an awful bore. I have nothing to say to you. Go find yourself a gentle patch of grass and watch the trees grow for a while. That might give you some perspective.”

“Is Daniel home? Can I talk to him?”

“Oh yes, he is, but he will not want to speak with you. He is busy, you see, with crackers and coffee.”

“Well, will you tell him I am sorry?”

“No. Oh, I mean I am sure he heard the whole thing and is very indifferent to the affair. He means to paint, and is entirely wrapped up in that endeavor. This leaves him no time for the citizens of this world, like us, dangling by our knitting and our frailties. Now please, go away. I cannot take too much more of this. Come back to me, when your mind is right.”

“But..I…Oh, Helen, please. I…”

“Goodbye James.”

She closes the door and walks back to the dining room. Daniel has finished his crackers and is sipping his coffee softly watching the light on the grass, admiring the shades of yellow.

“I am not painting. Or even thinking of doing so. Why say such a thing?”

“James is threatened by you. He feels you are superior to him so I play to this indulgence of his.”

“An interesting tactic. What do you hope to gain from him?”

“Compassion. And he bears it. The poor fool. He feeds me his compassion and I drain him of it so soon he will be nothing but a cocoon with a rotting caterpillar inside. Oh, don’t look at me that way. What you have done is worse by far.”

“And what is that?”

“Destroyed me. I watch the kids sometimes. I love them. But I watch them as if I were outside myself, with my eyes vacant and my heart empty. No feeling. And it is because I am no longer here. And the pity is they don’t know it. They hug me and cannot feel the cold corpse that I am. It is funny. I thought about suicide, you know. Seriously considered it. But I knew that it would mean nothing. That here, now, I am dead. A void of life that can only look to others to destroy in turn.”

“And you blame me for this?”

“For everything.”

“Then why stay?”

“Because you do. You stay and it gives me the opportunity to kill you.”

“Love. Blind and fruitless.”

“And why do you stay?”

“I suppose it is due to the fact there is nothing else out there. Where would I go? It would all be the same and pointless.”

“There is Jenny. I better start breakfast for her.”

The Deerfields – A Short Story

In time the Deerfields would come to feel more at home there. It was a lovely place with bright curtains and a white wrought iron table in the breakfast nook. The light on the flowerless blue vase, though, caused Lynn to cry and flee to the hollow darkness of a walk in closet. Dan coughed and let out a little chuckle. He nervously explained that the stress had been too much on Lynn, who was prone to emotional outbursts. The smaller child, Marla, stood partially behind him, clenching the back right leg of her father’s trousers. She was shielding herself from The Administrant, a short, thin man with a yellow and blue polka dot tie and thick fingers. He acknowledged Dan’s explanation with a curt yes. With his work complete, The Administrant handed Dan the keys, and reminded him that copies of all the documents were left on the desk in the study with the official ones to come by courier service in four to six weeks. His shoes did not make a sound as he left, and the door was shut with the sound of a barely audible click.
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Falling Apart – A Short Story

How do I keep from falling apart? The Superintendent is looking through the glass. His office is small and wood-paneled. I smile and he nods. I look down at my fingers and count my breath. There is a white clock with black hands that reads 8:33. Margaret smells flowers left on the reception desk with the note still unopened, For Jenny written on the envelope. The room smells of roses and disinfectant and I am a little nauseated as I sip coffee out of a styrofoam cup, but mainly the uneasy feeling is because I drank too heavily the night before, and stayed up too late, and the stuffy fragrance of the room merely complicates my constitution.

The Superintendent waves me in, and I go through his door as he is shutting the blinds. His bald head is dimmed and sweaty. I shut the door while downing the rest of my coffee. Not seeing a trash can nearby I regret my decision with the knowledge I will have to carry an empty cup for the length of the conversation which makes me feel slightly off-balance.
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Disgust – A Short Story

“I feel disgusted. With everything. Do you ever feel that way?”
“Most of the time. And mostly with myself.”
“How do you live with it? What do you do?”
“I write a lot. On napkins I pick up at restaurants.”
“I have taken to drink.”
“That does not help, you know.”
“Does writing on napkins?”
“No. But at least it is a little less vocal.”
“Oh, I am plenty vocal when drinking.”.” Continue reading

Janius Jim – A Short Story

Janius Jim is a big man. Rocky Mountain big with sandy beach hair and a crooked tooth smile that warms your heart. An ex-fighter, a wrestler of no renown, turned insurance broker who had to have cataract surgery at fifty. The surgery didn’t seem to work as five years after he was still having trouble seeing. Jim and I were sitting outside the office building we both work at, different companies though, drinking coffee in the morning where a few birds chirped and searched for food underneath nearby empty tables. In front of us a few ducks swam in a pond with a fountain shooting water up about ten feet to fall in a engineered calm and reassuring splashing sound. Tall bushes and lean trees were sparingly planted around the pond. There was a wound up umbrella at our table of a deep red color that reminded me of apples in winter.

“Whoo ah!” Jim breathed just after taking a sip. He had the habit of smelling the cup each time he takes one, sniffing and wincing his eyes. I though it had something to do with his bad eyesight. Maybe to get a better look at what was coming up to his face. But I was not sure. I never asked him. “Feels like a warm one today.”
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Patio Key – A Short Story

And then there was Byron Street. When me, Roolie, Katie, and Dex were outside The Bad Wolf and Crazy Eddie (the band) was playing heavy metal blues. Traffic moved by, bright blue red purple cars shining under the street lights. The music poured out of the door and along the ground and bounced off the small yellow orange rocks encased in concrete on the garbage can, shimmering and stinking. Dex blew his smoke straight up in the air. Trying to look cool. He liked Katie back then.

“You are my pocket friend,” Katie said to Roolie, almost yelling at him though they were no more than three feet apart.

“Ah. My itchy toe rash. You sweet.” Roolie tried to see what was going on inside The Bad Wolf, swaying like a boxer to get a better look.
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