This vignette was originally posted as an entry on 52stories.net. If you’re a writer looking for something to get you out of a creative rut, pay them a visit!
The morning was cool and agreeable as a small lizard poked his head from behind the chalkboard menu. “SERVING HOMEMADE MENUDO DAILY,” stood in blocky script at the top, but everything else had been wiped away the night before. The lizard, scanning with jerky eyeballs, was more interested in the crickets to be found underneath the prep table than the special of the day. It stopped and eyed the large man eating at the counter before scuttling behind a translucent jar of pickled vegetables in search of its own breakfast.
The cafe was otherwise deserted. Joe hunched over his huevos rancheros and shoveled mechanically, stopping occasionally for brief gulps of black coffee. He sat with elbows bracing his solid frame, his stubbled countenance reflecting dully in the brown Formica countertop. The stool beneath him looked overmatched.
Continue reading ‘Three Kinds of People’
The following is a chunk of prose written as an exercise with Tom Jordan. The idea was, he’d write a passage, I’d write a passage, we’d continue until we had sure-fire Hollywood gold. Problem is, I never got past this first submission. Was I intimidated by the lofty company in which I found myself? Perhaps. Regardless, so much for Hollywood gold.
Anyway, here it is. If you happen to be Tom Jordan and you’re reading this: We’ll get it going some day, buddy!
Otherwise, enjoy.
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Three seats behind Phillipe Valdez, a wiry, cigar-colored Mexican stirred and looked around sleepily. The boxy shoulders of his rumpled suit jacket were too large for his thin frame and his sinewy forearms were thrust from rolled up sleeves. He wore no watch. No wedding ring.
His name was Salvador Torrez, but he was simply referred to by those that knew him as Flaco. He was easily the tallest from his home village, near Oaxaca and he came from seven generations of butchers; robust, vital slaughterers of livestock with heavy, pugilist hands. His father was a butcher, his grandfather a butcher, and so it went.
Continue reading ‘Flaco’
Episode 36: Wheelchair People
An excerpt from an e-mail sent to Tom Jordan detailing one of those little moments on the train that just make you realize the world is filled with all kinds of people: good, bad, ignorant, stange…
Someday I’ll write a story that incorporates this guy. I feel I’m obligated.
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Like today on the train. A guy in a wheelchair gets on and, as we approach the next stop an older guy (using a business suit to disguise his true arsehole identity) is waiting to get off, standing next to the guy in the wheelchair. He starts talking to the conductor:
Continue reading ‘Scenes From a Train’
Episode 21: The Family Guy
Jack climbed the stairs of the 5:40 commuter, scanning the rows for an available seat. To his surprise, he discovered an open row. Even better. He liked a window seat.
Jack usually took the 6:18 commuter: A much busier train. Finding an open seat was always a challenge on the 6:18. The ladies with their corpulent bags were fascists when it came to accommodating a boarding rider. Men fiddling with laptops were junkyard dogs guarding their precious elbow room.
Continue reading ‘Scenes From a Train’
