once he was in love.
but not anymore. far from it.
it was all the touching.
she liked backrubs, and he was cursed with strong hands. it would have been a perfect match if only he had some patience, if only he liked to give back rubs, if only he found some pleasure in physical contact. it was a task that grew oppressive almost instantly. and when she asked for oil, it crossed the threshold into torture. he tried to breath through it, push on to the other side, but he could never play it off, no matter the intensity or duration, she was always disappointed. he wouldn’t even get credit for the forty seconds when he was nailing it. read more >
william holden is face down in the swimming pool.
the police arrive followed by the press.
flashbulbs pop. questions go unanswered.
gloria swanson creeps down the stairs. an elderly spider, patient, arms held at unnatural angles, ready to dance or cast a spell. her head tilts off center; her once lovely face pulled tight by a humming tension. her moment, her final scene, the climax. read more >
staring at the floor. frozen.
scuffed wood once elegant, now dulled by years of water spraying from the kitchen sink.
it’s the eighth floor at liberty lane.
frozen. looking down. familiar.
elliott came from a family that spent their lives propping up the walls, keeping the ceiling in place. his father drinking and laughing and screaming and occasionally hitting. read more >
the second monday song.
when i was in junior high there was a girl named nadine in my wood shop class. at some point, the boys started taunting her: “nadine, nadine, the header machine.” i never discovered the background, but, though she disappeared before high school, she was forever etched into my brain. years later, she’d occasionally come to mind, and I’d wonder what happened to her. read more >