Poetry
gray, balding, under an old Phillies cap,
hunched shoulders, his worn frame
in half steps stunted
by age and arthritis,
he makes is way from the curb to the door
of Kilgallen’s Tavern,
ten-thirty am for the morning painkiller.
hunched shoulders, his worn frame
in half steps stunted
by age and arthritis,
he makes is way from the curb to the door
of Kilgallen’s Tavern,
ten-thirty am for the morning painkiller.
Fiction
Last Night With Nora
She hears a shuffle in the dust, in front of the porch, then a thud. Drunken fool fell down again. She hopes that is what it was. She rolls over, opens the drawer on the night table and withdraws the pistol, just in case it isn’t him. Her feet hit the floor, she rises, gathers her nightgown close about her. Nora walks for the door, down the hall, down the steps to the foyer, through the screen door and lets it bang closed behind her.
In the dim post midnight moonlight she can see Gerald’s body splayed out in the dust and up the two steps. His head has hit the edge of the top porch floor step. The only blood is from the scratches that are caused by the worn wood. He lay face up. She moves down the steps into the dust. Nora stands in the warm dirt gazing down at her infidel. She stoops, laying the pistol on the step next to his bicep. Nora grabs the rope he uses for a belt and yanks it loose. She slides his trousers down. He has forgotten his underwear. She kneels close to his privates for an examination. It is encrusted. She takes a whiff. It isn’t her smell. She picks up the pistol, slowly rising, draws back the hammer and takes aim. The pop doesn’t even echo, doesn’t even disturb the passing of the night. The bullet pierces his forehead, slightly above the eyebrow line and remains somewhere in his otherwise empty head. Gerald had said the twenty-two caliber would only scare, not stop anything. He was wrong about that. Nora shuffles off toward the barn.
(this is page one from a short story available for publication and to be included in a short story collecton being completed)
She hears a shuffle in the dust, in front of the porch, then a thud. Drunken fool fell down again. She hopes that is what it was. She rolls over, opens the drawer on the night table and withdraws the pistol, just in case it isn’t him. Her feet hit the floor, she rises, gathers her nightgown close about her. Nora walks for the door, down the hall, down the steps to the foyer, through the screen door and lets it bang closed behind her.
In the dim post midnight moonlight she can see Gerald’s body splayed out in the dust and up the two steps. His head has hit the edge of the top porch floor step. The only blood is from the scratches that are caused by the worn wood. He lay face up. She moves down the steps into the dust. Nora stands in the warm dirt gazing down at her infidel. She stoops, laying the pistol on the step next to his bicep. Nora grabs the rope he uses for a belt and yanks it loose. She slides his trousers down. He has forgotten his underwear. She kneels close to his privates for an examination. It is encrusted. She takes a whiff. It isn’t her smell. She picks up the pistol, slowly rising, draws back the hammer and takes aim. The pop doesn’t even echo, doesn’t even disturb the passing of the night. The bullet pierces his forehead, slightly above the eyebrow line and remains somewhere in his otherwise empty head. Gerald had said the twenty-two caliber would only scare, not stop anything. He was wrong about that. Nora shuffles off toward the barn.
(this is page one from a short story available for publication and to be included in a short story collecton being completed)