Category: My Fiction

Shaky Hands

Early, somber van Gogh. Farmer at a table

My earliest memories are of family dinners. A distinct one occurred after my first day at St. Jerome Primary School. Father sat at the head of the table, between the dining room windows. Without a glance I knew his face would be stern. Mom put potatoes on my plate and said, “Larry, what did you…

Goodtime Charlie

Stormy cloud. Rorschach interepretations

The floating red bar reminded him of long ago, of the altar railing, which regular people weren’t allowed beyond. Charlie set his hands on the red bar, but pulled them back quickly. His palms were blistered.