Do I enjoy working as a copywriter? Usually. But some days, I'd rather have bamboo splinters shoved under my fingernails.
Category: Writing
Late Night Offerings to Mammon
Here is another chapter from my unfinished book tentatively titled Not Helping. It chronicles another facet of addiction. I wrote this a long time ago, but recently got it into shape. Hope you enjoy it and bring on the comments.
City Maenad
This piece is written by Basilike Pappa, a Greek poet I like.
Sample Chapter from Sean Layton’s Book
Here is a chapter of the memoir I've been working on dealing with my brother's addiction. Hope you enjoy it.
Making Life Decisions — Flash Fiction
A piece of flash fiction for your enjoyment. 'Mike rolls into L.A. His hatchback, his hermit crab shell, is packed roof high...'
Last Seat — Flash Fiction
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 …
The Lifeline — Flash Fiction
“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. …
Fungible Love, 1986
You took my hand, and we slipped away from Karen’s party like we’d known each other forever. Later, I scribbled down my number, then a lingering, predawn kiss at your front door. All week I lived on memories. Brown, pliable curves and wine-dark nipples stiffening under the brush of my fingertips. My phone sat stubbornly …
Fungible Love, 1986 — Flash Fiction
A piece of flash fiction exploring the unpredictability of sudden romance.
Car Swimming
“Thanks,” he croaks. His unnatural gyrations are freaking me out. I ease the car into traffic. He babbles about hiding from the police. I’m brimming with a host of different emotions. His right elbow bangs sharply against the passenger window. “Stop thrashing around.” “Sorry,” he mumbles. But he can’t stop, limbs flailing with the frantic …
Tales from the Land Manatee 