It was robbing season where I worked. Although I didn’t know why, it seemed to me an observable fact that the warmth of summer somehow thawed the laziness in low-level criminals. Cops patrolled more often, ramdom beatings became more frequent, and stick-up men looked for anything that shined with a focus that would be inspiring if it was directed at a book.
The newborn looked like a mutant raisin. That was all Kathy could think about as she stared her niece in the face. The pale thing lay on her sister-in-law’s chest and looked back at Kathy with black dots that couldn’t see more than a foot away. She was wrinkled, with facial features that Kathy couldn’t describe other than to say that they were there. Her nose was there; her ears were there; her mouth was there. They were all there, but they were as shapeless as a dream. The only thing Kathy could say for certain was that the wrinkles in the baby’s skin made her look like a raisin that had been exposed to some transfiguring chemical out of a comic book.
He never imagined that bare knuckles could do so much damage. Peter had watched enough TV shows and actions movies to have an idea of what a strong punch could do – while channel surfing he once ran into a mixed martial arts match and saw the busted lip and shut left eye of a man with a name he couldn’t pronounce. What he was looking at now though, was something else entirely. It was Karen who had been hit. It was him who hit her. There was no plastic screen or suited announcer to separate him from the blood and violence.
You wake up, but you’re still asleep.
Your dreams remain with you. Winning lottery tickets fly around in your head, alongside fantasies of childhood parental approval. Instead of saying “no” that time, you see the possibilities of a “yes.” You think of your ex-whoever and relive the moment when you realized it wouldn’t last. You feel the tear on your left check that you didn’t wipe away.
Full Circle Writer’s Workshop is where aspiring writers can share their stories in an inviting atmosphere and receive constructive feedback to better their craft. We meet regularly every 3 weeks, for 90 minutes to 2 hours, in an ultra-hip, extra chic area of Astoria, Queens. Writers are encouraged to bring their fiction, along with an open […]
Andrew McCarthy thought he found his other half. His other half didn’t agree, and since their break up he’s been moping around his apartment reliving the past. That stops the day his best friend Donald brow-beats him into being a groomsman at a wedding.
The day is filled with events, both tragic and funny, which make Andrew think about what it means to have family; to find love and to lose love. He’s forced to confront what it means to find someone who fits him, like a missing rib.
Maybe I should’ve gotten that Redbull. I debated the moot point for a moment. What I correctly guessed as the last twenty-four hour convenience store on my trip down the I-95 was thirty minutes behind me. I had missed my opportunity to get a caffeine pick-me-up, but my mind continued to wrestle with the past. I slipped deeper into drowsiness.
My writing career began with a smile and a lot of tears when Mr. Yeni collected a journal assignment meant to improve the class’ writing. We were to write about the exciting events taking place in our nine-year old lives for that week – a minimum of four pages worth of kiddie insights. My journal […]