Category

Fragments

• Fragments, Micro-Fiction

  “Untitled Fragment #10″

  06.08.08 | Permalink | Comment?

  Summer in the city. The grid is lit up like a dirty grill, hot and red, caking on the filth and the remnants of last night’s meat. It’s the weekend, but who cares, we have places to go, the atoms say, stretching apart, thrown together, brushing up against eachother’s agendas. A week ago, a crane fell and killed two and we stood on the cool breezy street, talking and complaining to absolute strangers, calling for Mike’s resignation, for action, for bureaucratic blood. Now the papers report that a crane operator had been bribed and, so long as the AC works, let’s bribe him some more and move, move, keep moving, the city is swell, though it feels like hell.

• Fragments, Micro-Fiction

  “Untitled Fragment #4″

  05.30.08 | Permalink | Comment?

  There was a frantic competition going on between the flash of cameras, the blinking lights of the ambulance, and the police cars; and the firetruck. It was a competition to see who could best illuminate the darkened city street, who could reveal the empty, stopped bus, who could help show the messenger’s deformed bicycle, and who could make known the messenger’s body lying beneath the black tarp. If the cameras belonged to tourists they were ‘point and shoot’ taken from the bag attached to their child’s stroller…

• Fragments, Micro-Fiction

  “Untitled Fragment #9″

  05.18.08 | Permalink | Comment?

  Eric and Melissa held on the handles, their eyes lazily resting on each other, but not exactly looking at one another. The train eased on comfortably attached to the side of the Williamsburg Bridge. It was, to be sure, the ugliest bridge that crossed the East River and was bookended by some of the ugliest part of both boroughs.

• Fragments

  “Untitled Fragment #8″

  04.30.08 | Permalink | Comment?

  The thugs jump around lightly in the light wind on the open platform like boxers, hitting like butterflies, not wanting to sting their friends. It’s been a long day. The young Latin girls, their caps’ brims as stiff as the boys from before, whisper about the black men who whistled at them safely from a […]

• Fragments, Micro-Fiction

  “Untitled Fragment #7″

  01.22.08 | Permalink | Comment?

  The idea, the promise of sleep became sleep itself long before the train reached young Sam’s stop. When it did, he was far away in another place, a place where work, love, happy hour, all came together as he wanted them to, but as he slept, in fact, one more thing, his journey home, had […]

• Fragments, Micro-Fiction

  “Untitled Fragment #6″

  12.18.07 | Permalink | 1 Comment

  Four drinks hadn’t made him forget about Darfur, nor health care, nor the Venezuelan elections, nor the strikers (wherever they may be). It also couldn’t make him forget the girl that he had loved, had almost got, and then had lost, all before the bar’s happy hour came to a close. She now sat with […]

• Fragments, Micro-Fiction

  “Untitled Fragment #3″

  12.02.07 | Permalink | 1 Comment

  Only a young Mexican girl got on at the Old Bridge stop. She stood in the rain, waiting for everyone else to get off first. She didn’t have her ticket ready, but Frank said she could pay on the way out. She smiled; he wasn’t sure whether or not she understood. The Mexicans always […]

• Fragments, Micro-Fiction

  “Untitled Fragment #2″

  11.22.07 | Permalink | Comment?

  Jersey City seemed to have been built overnight. The brand new apartment complexes, which lined the meticulously planned streets as far as the eye could see, did not have one window pane, nor one door, nor one roof which could be found to be, even by the most vigilant observer, any older than any other […]

• Fragments, Micro-Fiction

  “Untitled Fragment #1″

  10.31.07 | Permalink | 2 Comments

  “were r u” the screen said.
  He began hitting the keys again, sloppily, “At a bar. Drunk…”. Send. The music was blasting in his ears, causing his brain to vibrate. ‘were r u’! What an idiot, he thought. She wasn’t smart and he was (at least in his opinion). And yet, in a bar surrounded by […]

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Starving writer publishing bite-size pieces of prose everyday. Also occasionally riffing on Culture, Art, and Media. I also do freelance writing and work for hire.

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