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The Wooden Door (3)
Martha took Lamar’s hand. “This gang warfare is senseless. It will get you nowhere,” she said. Then she took Paulie’s hand. “Don’t you understand that if you beat Lamar and his boys, there will always be someone else waiting to take you on. The battle will never end.”
The Wooden Door (2)
“Hanging out with your buddies on the street. Beating up strangers so often that the cops at the station know me by name. Stealing. What are you doing with your life?” His Mom slumped down on his bed and put her head in her hands.
The Wooden Door (1)
The old wooden door was a sentry protecting those inside.
The Consequence of Bad Choices
"I'm you. From nine years in your future. I'm not entirely sure how I got here but I figured out exactly whyonce I saw that I was in Chicago on this day. I knew exactly where you'd be. I'm here, I think, to prevent devastation."
I Give You Nothing
She was America’s wet dream, white, blonde, and beautiful. Of course, these physical characteristics were used against her, primarily by those who had not achieved a fraction of what she had earned. Her accomplishments were never, according to these people, the fruits of her natural intellect and hard labor. Rather, they were the inevitable conclusion derived from the size of her breasts/ass/stomach, as well as a particularly nasty rumor that had been circulating since sophomore year concerning an alleged handjob she had given to Mr. Howley—the English teacher who organized these events—behind the bleachers in the old gymnasium.
Extinguished Light
He broke into a piece of the earth with his shovel. The burial, he had decided, would take place in front of the farm. The surrounding soil was fertile enough, so the dig wouldn’t be too taxing, physically speaking. Halfway through, the father appeared to lose control of his basic motor skills. He dropped the shovel and immediately fell to his knees and began to dry-heave. The heaving gave way to a sudden and hostile appearance of vomit that expelled out of his mouth with a force that could only be described as audacious.
Darkness
“You alright?” asks the cop.
I try again. It’s harder and harder to breath. My chest.
“I can’t breathe. My sternum. It’s bursting out of my chest.” I lean on his car.
“Whoa there, fella, I just got it washed.”
“Please. Help me.”
The cop laughs. “Looks like you’re dying.” He stretches his arms back with a yawn, then straightens his hat. “Time for me go.”
“No.” Another gasp.
The Bog
Finn placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder and squeezed. “I wish there was another way, Michael. I do. But this is best for you. And us, o’course. A hunter best hunts alone. You’ll be a better man for it when ye come home.”
The Coffee Shop
“You know.” The stranger winked. “I mean, what if you pissed someone off bad. I mean really bad. And they wanted it taken care of? In a coffee shop? Say, this one? At,” he looked at his watch, then looked up smiling. “One o’clock and thirty-five seconds.” He laughed. “And the guy to do it was supposed to be me? Weird, huh?”
Loony
He awoke in a panic with a piss boner bursting through his boxers. He sprung from his bed, legs crossed, praying to God to help him make it in time.
The Cittadino
“My father, he’s from the old country. He can be a pain in the ass, but he’s harmless. He doesn’t know…” Roberto shook his head. “He doesn’t know what…” he choked on his words. “My mother, she died, and now he’s alone. He tries, but,” Roberto glanced back at his father, now sitting stoically on the seat, puffing his cigar. “I’m sorry Officer.”
Smooth
Eddie played short. He had what the scouts called the quick twitch. It made him a natural. He could pick anything behind the bag, go deep in the hole, jump turn and throw mid-air to first, in a freakin’ blur. On a pop fly, he’d go out hard, back to the infield, make the grab over the shoulder–no problem.
The Bottle Washer
As a young hospital administrator at Rush Medical Center, one of the things I was encouraged to do is to make rounds on the various patient care units and support areas. These visits helped me build and reinforce relationships with the medical and nursing staff and drop in on some of the recently hospitalized patients.
Half Pant Final
He was 7 feet tall, wearing yellow flowered shorts that stopped an inch above his deeply scarred right knee. Muscular calves supported long legs that ended in crooked toes sprouting from lime green sandals. The image of a blues man wailing on his Stratocaster was silk-screened in silver on his black tee shirt. “Buddy Guy” in script identified the artist.
The Partnership
9:30 am. It was already 95 degrees with a 1000% humidity. And it was only mid-June.
When I moved to St. Louis from Chicago in 1990 to take my first CEO job at The Jewish Hospital of St. Louis, I traded a lousy winter for an unbearable summer. 3 dress shirts a day to go with my suit. One more when I had an evening function to attend.
People Gotta Eat
“I bought a store.”
His father stopped mid-scoop, spaghetti and neck bone dripping with sauce dangling only a few inches from his bristly chin. “A what?” Sounding as if the neck bone of the pig slaughtered for the family was now lodged deep in his throat.
Hey, Kid, Catch The Ball
If we didn’t play ball in the alleys, we played pinners against the front-stoop with a pinkie or fastpitch against the factory wall. What we didn’t want to do is hit our only league into the yard of Mr. Hardwick, who had Baron, the meanest German Shepard you could imagine on patrol. Baron drooled with desire when he saw us come near, the dream of tearing off a piece of our skin or even a finger or two making him crazy.
Sixty Bucks a Week
The phone on the wall rang. The long, knotted cord dragged on the floor as she listened carefully to the distant voice. He had collapsed. She stared out the window where he’d usually park, the space empty. It was 95°, but it wasn’t the heat. Not a heart attack, a stroke, or a seizure.
Tilly’s
I could see him as he talked. The mouth surrounded by the scraggly beard, moving at a thousand miles an hour. Him walking and talking at the same time since he never sat for too long in any one place. Medium height, medium build, and large hands with fingers, which had been broken years ago. The hands hid the story of a man feared by many when he was much younger.
Primo
“I’m gonna do the dago hop on my 80th birthday. I’ll be good by then.” Primo struggled to slide off Dr. Anthony Choy’s exam table.
“The Dago hop?” Dr. Choy asked.
“It’s an Italian folk dance.” Romolo, Primo’s son, answered.