Short Fiction


Posted by on 4:44 pm in ShortFiction | 0 comments

The sun is bearing down on the hitter, Jenny Ryan. Her father runs a software company downtown, doing well, too

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Fire! Fire!

Posted by on 4:40 pm in ShortFiction | 0 comments

As soon as I got to the ground, she was on me with one question after another.
“Didn’t you smell the smoke?”
“Yes, but not right away.”
“Didn’t you see the fire?”

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Saving Uncle Freddie

Posted by on 7:10 pm in ShortFiction | 1 comment

Uncle Freddie was less than five feet tall; his wife, Carmella, was even shorter.

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Posted by on 9:08 pm in ShortFiction | 0 comments

There were puddles on the dirt path to the yogwan where we would spend the night. I tried to keep the mud off my shoes. Morgan could have cared less about the mud. Her eyes were on what was ahead. I felt guilty. Even though I was high, the Catholic in me inventoried the sins I’d committed and was about to commit. At the front desk, an ajumoni – hair dyed jet black as if that would hide her age, eyes deep in their sockets, having seen what the world is and judging it worthless – greeted Morgan like she was a good customer. Morgan...

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Posted by on 6:41 pm in ShortFiction | 0 comments

Adem He was born at a time when men still remembered the occupying Nazi Army with fondness. His father and his father’s brothers had collaborated, but no one talked of that now. On his mother’s side, the family kept the memory of the diaspora to Turkey alive. Though they prospered among the ruins of the Turkish Empire – eating Turkish, speaking Turkish, living in sympathy among their fellow Muslims, they never forgot that they were pushed out of their own country because of their race. For Adem, foreigners brought...

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Posted by on 9:54 pm in ShortFiction | 0 comments

When I was in grade school, I was in fear that someone who wasn’t my mother would steal into my room at night. This thought scared the hell out of me and often prevented sleep.

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Shakespeare and the Moon

Posted by on 9:53 pm in ShortFiction | 0 comments

We were driving on the Belt out to Manhattan Beach in Pappone’s big ’61 Buick Wildcat. There were five of us. I was in the back with Crazy Billy.

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The Bridge

Posted by on 9:51 pm in ShortFiction | 0 comments

“Lady, do me a favor. Get out of this block, will ya?”
(Police Sergeant to Florence Campbell, one of the last holdouts in Bay Ridge)

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Posted by on 9:46 pm in ShortFiction | 0 comments

So my best friend Arnie Arnesson and me were getting into it outside the Church of the Lutheran Redeemer, where our Cub Scout pack met once a week on Tuesdays. I had just pushed Arnie into the hedges near the entrance when his mother came along.

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Posted by on 9:40 pm in ShortFiction | 0 comments

Briscola or “Brisk” in Brooklyn is an Italian card game. It’s played with a deck of forty cards and there is a trump suit. Who knows how it came to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn and why it was the game of cards favored by teenagers hanging out on stoops with nothing particular to do? LJS

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