Fiction

    The hotel in Westwood was set back off the street and the entrance was up a dozen cement steps, cracked and precarious, like the residents’ collective state of mind. This was old Hollywood, and the hotel’s claim to...

     By the time we left and got to the funeral home we were just a little bit buzzed. The funeral director was a 60-something guy in a black pinstriped suit with his hair slicked back like one of the Stray Cats. Between the...

    This southern shore of Long Island has much sand and few stones, in contrast to the rock-strewn coastline of the west. There, one will hardly notice a particular stone for the mass of them. Here, a solitary stone against the...

It isn’t easy knowing how the whole universe works. First off, no one believes me when I say that I do, and that can be very frustrating at times. I mean really, how would you feel if people didn’t believe you when you tell them what you do?

I spend eight God-awful hours a day, six days a week, lugging lumber as mosquitoes whine around my head. I didn’t sign on for babysitting.