Smoke
Peter wanted a smoke.
I gave some old stories a little love and polish. Find them here. They are my personal favourites.
Peter wanted a smoke.
a haiku poem
‘How the Hell did he get up there?
I waited impatiently for my computer to shut down.
It’s never been easy working in the same place where Mom died.
Officially, the Marcy Bell was a salvage rig, licensed for Canadian and international waters but not American.
Rod in hand, I went to the lake
Agent Justin Cayse left the bordello from the rear, having escaped his captor.
Eunice sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed and stared out the window, the rustling of leaves muted by glass.
“Goddam it,” Rita O’Neill said as she let the curtains slide back into place.
“I hate to bother you, but I have something important to ask,” said the new waitress, setting down my plate of scrambled eggs.
There once was an alien named Xanarax