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by Kiel Gulick
My first boss was an old slob, round in the middle, with a bald spot the size of a grapefruit on the back of his head. His name was Mike Palermo and the only job I could have seen him in was the one he had, maintenance. He sure-as-hell fit the bill – a real blue-collar kind of guy. Read more »
Tags: Kiel Gulickby Luis Lascano
Every grandmother is crazy in some way. The reason for that may be related to the fact of simply having lived a long time. The “aging element” becomes more evident when they are put in the situation of having grandchildren. Then grandmothers believe that they are mothers again. The only thing about this new scenario is that they have their own baggage of experience but a smaller responsibility. In the case of my grandmother all of these issues were present. But also she had a huge tendency to behave in a really inconsequential way. Read more »
by Michael Hazani
I’m standing in a crowded street, a few feet away from a staircase leading down to the underground station. People blur by, walking purposefully, avoiding eye contact. The sun is already high in the sky; it must be noontime, or close to it. I lift my gaze and stare at the sun for five or six seconds, then shut my eyes, and a painful, bright circular shape is engraved in my eyelids. I feel dehydrated, I have a headache, and I want to find some shade and perhaps a bottle of water. Read more »
Tags: Michael Hazaniby Sue Buzzard
CREATION
The Hero was born on a cold winter’s morn in December. The wind was blisteringly frigid and blowing to shake the eaves from the roof. The weather was too dangerous to go out or for a doctor to come to the house, so the Hero erupted from his mother’s womb into the strong cradling arms of his father. He did not cry, but opened his golden eyes and gazed serenely up at his dumbstruck parents. Read more »
Tags: Sue Buzzardby Eric Bolton
It was during the summer in which I was 17 when I became the invisible boy around my house. It wasn’t so much that I had a bad home life. In fact, comparably speaking, I was raised pretty well. It wasn’t like something out of “Leave it to Beaver” where we’d all gather around the dinner table, eat a roast, and talk about our days. My parents were fairly hands-off. They never reminded me to do my homework, but at the same time, they never hit me for not doing it. Really, my childhood could’ve been a lot worse. Read more »
Tags: Eric Boltonby S. Kean Cattaneo
The battered gray mailbox at the end of our cul de sac used to read “400″ in red letters before some neighborhood kid (who wasn’t me) stole the four and probably hung it in his bedroom next to a Red Sox poster. The red zeros they left behind looked like two eyes. During the summer, when waves of heat made the asphalt blurry, they almost blinked at you if you squinted real hard. Read more »
Tags: S. Kean Cattaneoby Didi Stewart
Clive Duffy cleared away the empty glasses and mopped the bar. It was almost closing time. Soon he’d be popping down to Lime Street and meeting the lads for a pint or two. They’d have a game of darts, a few laughs. Then it’d be home to Milly for the usual kippers-on-toast, slippers-before-the-telly Sunday night. Read more »
Tags: Didi Stewart