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Showing posts from 2008

Six Word Novels in the Tradition of Ernest Hemingway

Odyseuss. Homecoming. 20 years. Bit Late.

“Don’t touch that apple,” Adam warned.

In-laws. Crass. Complaining. Arctic melting. Send!

Take this job and. . .quarter, anyone?

Medication does strange things to people.

The bell tolls? I don’t hear. . .

Sunrise. Chicken lays an egg. Breakfast.

Hark? Who goes there? Not I.

Doorbell rings. No answer. Publisher’s Clearinghouse.

Odysseus. Vietnam Vet. Not home yet.

Homer. Odysseus. Seus. Yertle. Help Wanted.

Homage to Phyllis Whitney

At Bellport High School out on Long Island, my brother graduated as his class valedictorian, my sister somewhere at the top of her class. And then there was me. I held the solid middle ground of my graduating class.

But I was the only one who met Phyllis Whitney, an author whose books I'd read since the second grade. Her grandkids attended high school, one a year ahead of me, the other a year behind. Phyllis Whitney spoke at one of our library classes at Bellport High when I was a junior. I remember her warmth and the sparkle in her eyes when she spoke about writing.

She sponsored a writing contest and I, bored out of my mind from mindless high school chatter, decided to enter. Phyllis Whitney started the story and we were asked to complete it. I'll have to dig it out of my archives and include it at a later point. I still have the issue of the publication that the story appeared in.

I remember doodling in my notebook and daydreaming in Social Studies class until I heard my na…

Retail Therapy

I am one of those people to whom many stories are told. From dusty tales of Mexican laundry folders who drink too much on Saturday nights to one very nervous cop aiming his gun at me as I exited my apartment to dispose of recyclables, to my traveling companions on overstuffed M100 buses, to underappreciated and aggravated secretaries, public school teachers with unruly students, to Wall Street workers coming off an exhilarating trade, the shopping bag of disclosure is open and ready for unpacking.

It happens most often while I shop. From tomatoes to turtlenecks, the hordes corner me like some sort of exalted celebrity as I’m preoccupied with finding the right size, shape, or shoe: dapper shoe salesmen complain about women who send them scurrying to the storeroom as they spend their weekends being waited on hand and well, feet; chubby cashiers at Target, Saks, and Duane Reade point out their swollen ankles; and the chic who shop at the Gap and Henri Bendel invite me into the operating …