Archive | June, 2013

Skywriting (a “Dirty Windows” outtake)

10 Jun

They were awoken by a loud noise. It was a small airplane flying around their bedroom. The plane was skywriting. The message read “We do windows,” followed by a phone number. They read the message with great interest, but when they realized the phone number was theirs they went back to sleep.


Glass (a “Dirty Windows” outtake)

9 Jun

He told her to open her mouth, but she wouldn’t. She just paced around the room, her mouth closed tight, like a fist.

He went into the other room and watched her through the one-way mirror.

She stood in front of the mirror and began to apply lipstick, blood red, her mouth a grotesque pucker. Then she smashed the mirror. The flying shards of glass blinded him.

The Same Thing (a “Dirty Windows” outtake)

8 Jun


    This was published in 2009 in the online journal Snow Monkey. It’s an outtake from “Dirty Windows.”

He couldn’t see what she was seeing, yet they were looking at the same thing. She couldn’t see how he couldn’t see what she was seeing, when they were looking at the same thing. “Are you looking at the same thing that I’m looking at?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you see what I see?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “What do you see?”

“I see what you don’t see,” she said angrily.

“Then I guess I don’t see what you’re seeing,” he replied.

There — he admitted it — he couldn’t see what she was seeing. Nothing changes, she told herself. You live with a man for twenty-five years and nothing changes.

A Strange Experience (a “Bagatelles” outtake)

8 Jun

I’m pretty sure I cut this from “Bagatelles” because the supernatural aspect didn’t quite fit with the rest of the pieces. Instead I published it in my chapbook Snacks.

Once, while she was sucking my cock, the strangest thing happened: my organ broke away from my body and at the same time her head separated itself from her neck. Continuing the blowjob, her head and my cock began to float upwards like a balloon. They hovered above the bed and went on as if nothing had happened. Luckily, she knew sign language, so she was able to communicate with me.

“What will we do?” her hands said.

“I don’t know about you,” I replied, “but I’m going to sit here and enjoy the spectacle.”



Mr. Deadman’s Way

5 Jun

I did it my way, Mr. Deadman congratulates himself, every time he faces the final curtain.

Crossing Over (a Mr. Deadman outtake)

5 Jun

Mr. Deadman crosses the road at the red, oblivious to oncoming traffic. He strolls jauntily, smiles beatifically, and whistles a happy tune, Chopin’s Funeral March. Cars swerve around him or come to a screeching halt in order to avoid running him over. When he gets to the other side of the road a cop stops him and hands him a ticket for jaywalking. “You should be more careful,” the cop says. “You could have got yourself killed.”

“Yes, Officer,” Mr. Deadman says as he examines the ticket. Crossing over is not without its costs, Mr. Deadman now understands.

Footwear (a Mr. Deadman outtake)

5 Jun

Mr. Deadman once died in sneakers, Adidas, if you need to know, of a heart attack, while jogging. He died in sandals once, of heatstroke, on a sweltering August afternoon in Washington, D.C. One time he died of a brain aneurysm while wearing a shiny new pair of Johnston and Murphy wingtips. Mr. Deadman has died barefoot, peacefully in his sleep, on several occasions, a respectable, if unexciting, way to go. As a young boy, once, he even died in a pair of pajamas with feet.

But never, not once, so far, has Mr. Deadman died with his boots on.