Posted in Memoirs, tagged Hands, Homeless, Memoirs, Modesty, philadelphia, pride, Writing on June 2, 2008 | 16 Comments »
I remember his hands mostly.
From the first time I met him through the next few times we stood together, smoking cigarettes on Chestnut Street, they were all I could look at.
Like the hands of a corpse, they looked carved.
His fingers were long and thin and held together by knuckles that looked ready to explode. Yellow [...]
Posted in Memoirs, tagged An Analysis of the Forces Required to Drag Sheep Over V, Memoirs, Sheep, Short Stories, Writing on May 4, 2008 | 2 Comments »
The last thing I had expected to wake up to this morning was the sound of gunshots. Pop, pop. I kept my eyes shut. Pop. I rolled onto my back and folded the pillow around my ears, staring at the cracks in the plaster ceiling. Muffled gunshots penetrated the foam, sounding like far off [...]
Posted in Memoirs, tagged Creative Writing, Cutting, Divorce, Memoirs, Non Fiction, Short Stories, Tattoos, Writing on March 15, 2008 | 10 Comments »
I got my first tattoo when I was fourteen. I did it myself in the bathroom, with a razorblade and a jar of calligraphy ink. It’s on my thigh.
It’s an angry face with wild, spiked hair. His eyes are squeezed shut. These are drawn as a group of lines that all come [...]
Posted in Memoirs, tagged Memoirs, Non Fiction, road trip, Seedy Motels, travel, Writing on March 3, 2008 | 8 Comments »
The man behind the counter is on the phone. He’s yelling. He’s talking so fast that we can’t make out anything he’s saying. He’s speaking English but his thick Indian accent hides any clues as to what he is saying from our ears. The parts of his conversation, his over the phone rampage, that we [...]
