Stories tagged anger

The Awakening

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Aura arrives with the incense and her mysteries. Her scent of wet earth, and crushed flowers, a touch of Jasmine and Frankincense. Her dark hands passing over my body, her warmth. A whisper. A prayer.


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Chicago. Recent. The nineties that we thought would bring so much more. The day was raw. Well, rawer than it should have been, anyway. And I'm not talking about chill or heat,…


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Takeo Suzuki was teaching KC, big-time film actor and director, the proper way to slice yellowtail. The chef made four quick cuts. KC mimicked him, but his cuts were barbaric and loud.

When a Bowl Hits a Tree

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You would think when a bowl hits a tree the sound would be fierce, a loud clatter as stoneware explodes on birch bark dispersing shards in daffodils and grape muscari, but the noise is gentle, a thudding clink like empty bourbon bottles rattling hollow in…


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Grandfather was surly. Everything angered him. He’d play solitaire at his table, blow cigarette smoke, eat canned anchovies, complain about grandkids drinking his bottled Coke.

Music That Tastes Like Blood

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It is your music that makes me want to crack open my ribcage and rip out my heart as it still beats, to cauterize my carotids, and shove the mechanical insides of a clock into my thoracic cavity.


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I got out of your car and walked up the brick path to my apartment complex. In the doorway, I turned and waved to you. You honked the horn, a quick beep beep, like a teasing wink, like a promise, and then you drove away.

Kissing Cobras

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She administers the alkaloids slowly, soaking the muscles in blight, the body tissue beneath into corrosion.


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Years later, I found a map in my brother’s lonely apartment in L.A. “Bury me here,” he instructed in a scrawl on a map he had drawn of Woodlawn Cemetery.

Dinner at the Harmony Restaurant

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Balling my fists, I banged them on the retro-formica tabletop. The taste of pufferfish balls in an oleander-infused reduction with a seaweed and pomegranate side-salad tossed in a geranium-rottweiler vinaigrette rose in my throat.

No, You Don’t Know What I am Thinking

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Scratch his eyes out, flashed through Edgar's head, scratch his eyes out.

Traffic, I'm in no rush.

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Traffic, no need to be in a hurry.

Letter to the Bean Factory

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The figure was covered in a light blue chenille bathrobe, splayed out on her back on the floor by the glass door, her hair done up in large curlers, a slipper lying askew by her left foot. Richie crouched near the face and the rancid flame of bourbon lea

Treason's Legacy

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