The Long Ride Home

“You want the rest of these fries?”

Travis glanced at his sister’s oily potato wedges, imagining an injection of hot grease barreling straight to his heart. “Nah, I’m good.”

Blake tilted her head back and stuffed the last chunk of her double cheese jalapeno burger in her mouth, her cheeks bulging as she chewed. She chased it with her strawberry shake, sucking the red straw until all that was left was the irritating sound of air scraping the bottom of an empty cup. Then she belched.

“I can’t believe you aren’t hungry,” she said.

“We’re almost there. It is Thanksgiving, you know. Last I checked, food is sort of a big part of it.”

“You know Dad takes forever with the turkey. And Mom will probably have like four pots still going when we get there.”

The Journalist

It started with a cup of Colombian dark roast—black, a plain bagel and light cream cheese. As she sat, lap top open, in a local coffee shop, a thin gentleman, white-haired with a neatly cropped beard approached her table. She'd noticed him earlier, folding his copy of the Times as he read it in sections. She figured him for a banker or an attorney, maybe even a professor—anything except a messenger.

The Write Match

‘The Write Match’. It sounded so cheesy that I had to bite. If nothing else, I figured I’d get some material to blog about. An online dating service specifically geared toward writers? What’s not to love? Sure, it was probably just a roster of adverb-slinging losers with no friends outside of their characters, sitting on their asses all day and procrastinating until their muse showed up, but I’d been in a slump. A MAJOR slump and I needed to knock the rust off of my ‘after-dinner’ banter. I figured if it was a date with another writer, at least I’d get some interesting conversation out of the deal. Maybe we could bond over our dislike for E.L. James and a bottle of red.

Truth be Told

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