Here is a chapter of the memoir I've been working on dealing with my brother's addiction. Hope you enjoy it.
Being a single guy and cooking for yourself is tough — at least it is if you're me — unless you consider baking a shitload of asparagus to be cooking.
Is it me or are robots stealing our jobs? Seriously, they're starting to crop up everywhere. They even have robot prostitutes. Where does it stop?
Women frequently say (to men anyway) that size doesn't matter. But size matters. It always does.
A piece of flash fiction for your enjoyment. 'Mike rolls into L.A. His hatchback, his hermit crab shell, is packed roof high...'
Our story to this point: When last we saw our intrepid hero (me), things were going poorly for him, and he was on his way to "meet the rest of the Crips" — though not voluntarily.
Trembling over her, afraid to touch, Marcus never saw her face. Her chestnut hair is what he’ll remember. And the crimson nimbus of blood spreading across the asphalt. She had barely squeezed into the last space ahead of him. The tail car of the accelerating trolley, snapping around the corner, flung her carelessly from the …
“Make love to me,” she murmurs clinging desperately to his fragile stability amongst the raging chaos. She’s in the best shape of her life. Better than when they were madly in love. Body fat down to nothing, long legs toned from daily ten-mile walks trying to escape herself, breasts like rare fruit enticingly within reach. …