All the books I read this year.

1. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – Hunter S. Thompson – 1971
2. The Rules of Civility – Amor Towles – 2011
3. 21 Lessons for the 21st Century – Yuval Noah Harari – 2018
4. The War of Art – Steven Pressfield – 2002
5. The Lost Bookshop – Evie Woods – 2023
6. A Confederacy of Dunces – John Kennedy Toole – 1980
7. Notes from Underground – Fyodor Dostoevsky – 1864
8. On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft – Stephen King – 2000 
9. The Poisonwood Bible – Barbara Kingsolver – 1998
10. Sea of Tranquility – Emily St. John Mandel – 2022
11. The Likeness – Tana French – 2008
12. Post Office – Charles Bukowski – 1971
13. If It Bleeds – Stephen King – 2020
14. Vineland – Thomas Pynchon – 1990
15. The Forest for the Trees: An Editor’s Advice to Writers – Betsy Lerner – 2000
16. Filth – Irvine Welsh – 1998
17. Into the Wild – Jon Krakauer – 1996
18. Consumia’s Spiritual Emporium – Rob Weldon – 2022
19. The 7 ½ Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle – Stuart Turton – 2018
20. Circe – Madeline Miller – 2018
21. The Glass Castle – Jeanette Walls – 2005
22. Resurrection – Leo Tolstoy – 1899
23. The Blind Assassin – Margaret Atwood – 2000
24. Hot Water Music – Charles Bukowski – 1983
25. The Splendid and The Vile – Erik Larson – 2020
26. Their Divine Fires – Wendy Chen – 2024
27. Demon Copperhead – Barbara Kingsolver – 2022
28. Welcome to the Monkey House – Kurt Vonnegut – 1968
29. Such a Quiet Place – Megan Miranda – 2021 
30. The Night Watchman – Louise Erdrich – 2020 
31. Steppenwolf – Herman Hesse – 1927 
32. The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald – 1925 
33. Blood Meridian – Cormac McCarthy – 1985 
34. Refuse to be Done: How to Write and Rewrite a Novel – Matt Bell – 2022 
35. The Shell Collector – Anthony Doerr – 2002 
36. The Nickel Boys – Colson Whitehead – 2019  
37. The Acid House – Irivine Welsh – 1994
38. Never Lie – Frieda McFadden – 2022 
39. Ghostwritten – David Mitchell – 1999
40. Heart of Darkness – Joseph Conrad – 1899
41. Geek Love – Katherine Dunn – 1989
42. The Institute – Stephen King – 2019
43. We Have Always Lived in the Castle – Shirley Jackson – 1962
44. 20th Century Ghosts – Joe Hill – 2005 
45. Tender is the Flesh – Augustina Bazterrica – 2017 
46. Hidden Pictures – Jason Rekulak – 2022 
47. The Girl Next Door – Jack Ketchum – 1989
48. The House by the Cemetery – Lisa Childs – 2024
49. Little Heaven – Nick Cutter – 2017
50. The Shadow of the Wind – Carlos Ruiz Zafon – 2001
51. The Death of Ivan Ilych – Leo Tolstoy – 1886
52. The Vegetarian – Han Kang – 2007
53. A Little Life – Hanya Yanigahara – 2015
54. There There – Tommy Orange – 2018

Flat Earth
In a world, nay universe, increasingly devoid
Of god or queen and country, et al
It’s a lot easier to believe that someone
Is pulling all the strings, even if
It’s lizard people or Illuminati

Because, like biting off more than you can chew
It’s hard to swallow the idea that no one or nothing
Is in control of our lives and we’re just
Madly spinning out in the vast dark
Climbing on top of each other like fire ants
In a flood but no more important than a dust mote
In a sunbeam, swept away by a querulous finger
And deposited in the trash can of time

A weary, wintry walk through
These bare and fruitless trees
Reveals that something lingers
On the harsh and biting breeze

The senses can’t describe it
Though the gut, it knows it well
It offers no description
No sight, no taste, no smell

Bony, twisty fingers reach up
To heaven’s rotting gate
Best to step lightly here, friend
Or meet a wicked fate

A quick, cursory glance behind
Reveals only more empty path
All it offers is loneliness
If one does the math

But the heart, the gut, the soul
Feel the peering of a hundred eyes
The empty space between the branches
Promising only hopeful lies

Best quicken your step, friend
And find a safer space
Let soft imprint of boots on wet, 
Dead leaves be your only trace

And whence you find yourself
Wrapped in home’s welcoming song
You yet feel somehow 
That something still feels wrong
With this final revelation you can see
--It never felt so strong--
The malice you felt, and from which
You ran--was inside you all along.

And he said, “I love you.”

So she nodded, as she ought to, as was appropriate and customary.

But it simply wasn’t good enough, according to her traditions. She shed one small tear because she loved him too. And because he didn’t know what was coming.

He was an outsider. Probably the reason she loved him anyway. But that didn’t change a thing.

Rules were rules here.

So she drilled his hands and feet to the floor.

He cried out the whole time, pleaded and threatened and begged. Of course, she had read the manual and knew this wasn’t uncommon. But she felt a stab at her heart the whole time.

Then using a scalpel and bone-saw, she opened his chest. This especially he cried the loudest during. This especially she cried the hardest—salty tears dripping into his chest as it split open.

Eventually he passed out, as was expected according to the manual. And so she extracted his heart; carefully and with precision, as she had been instructed. And she placed it in a jar, on a shelf, next to all the other hearts she had taken.

But she would always remember his as the warmest. As the best. It would always be his heart—floating in formaldehyde—which she would seek when she first came back to her room. It was always there to bring a smile to her face. It was a beautiful heart, and she would be able to always have it.

Excerpt, “Mountain Pass”, Short Story:

And when you take the curves with reckless abandon, there’s a sensation that consumes you, eats you up and spits you back out feeling more alive than before. It’s that tension in your hands, gripping so hard on the wheel the knuckles become ghosts of their former selves. Your arms are rigid planks, so taut that only a tightrope walker could cross. Your feet are doing some sort of senseless dance, tapping pedals seemingly at random. And on your face, you wear a look somewhere between terrified and bemused, not quite cracking a smile yet neither a grimace. All they would really need to see is your eyes, though, feverish cavities flickering to and fro with all the intensity and unpredictability of a raging inferno. 

Such a perfect place to test the fluidity of electric transmission from nerve ending to nerve ending, you think, scarcely allowing time to take in the sights around you. Sheer rock walls rise on either side, encapsulating your little vessel, both making you, as one man, feel diminutive, and as men of the earth, feel like gods for carving mountains out of your path. Bright yellow signs occasionally warn you against doing exactly what you are doing, increasing the sense of danger, increasing the flow of blood and adrenaline to the brain. They flicker briefly in the brights of your headlamps and then fall away quickly back into the silence of the night. A crescent moon peeks her head over the top of a distant rock group, as if too afraid to fully emerge in the blight of your furious run. You feel like an invader, charging her faraway castle on the hilltop, racing ever closer to the distant satellite.

But what they don’t see, what they can’t tell, is that you are not racing towards a destination on a wicked joy-ride, but racing away on a hell-bent furor. What you are racing away from is not a person or a place but rather a feeling. And, although the speedometer wavers at an unhealthy and perilous rate, so far you’ve put no distance between you and that feeling, sinking further and further through your gut. The worst part is it’s not a feeling you can put a finger on or give a name to. It’s not like the anxiety of debt or the heartbreak of some ex-lover, it’s not depression of growing age or anger at career movement. Maybe it’s all of these things and maybe it’s none, but the closest you can come to explaining it would be feeling such as a fly caught in an invisible web. Neither is this feeling new; rather it’s been living with you since you developed consciousness. Most days it’s manageable, cursory and keeps to the back of your mind. But sometimes, like late on certain nights, it becomes unbearable and you must race away as fast as possible, place your life in immediate danger to quell that unbearable sense, that sword hanging always over your head; Damocles. 

It doesn’t happen often, just often enough, that you’ve come to know this particular winding mountain path better than the path to the pisser in the black of night; for there, at times, a miscreant toe finds itself stubbed. Here, the curves are home.

………

Excerpt of a 70 page novella I am seeking for publication, titled “When”:

The old man sits listlessly on the park bench, rheumy eyes fixated on a distant spectacle or apparition. One would say it is balmy, not quite hot, but certainly warm with an occasional soothing breeze—like invisible caressing hands. He is dressed in an old brown suit, his favorite if you care to know, and if he were younger you might think he were prepping for a job interview. Maybe a fancy date. But on this Sunday afternoon—with a clear blue sky occasionally blemished by a few straggling white, puffy clouds—it looks more like he was waiting to meet his maker.

The park is a spectacle, but one could not be sure the old man is looking at any of it. Over there, a trio of young children make mad maneuvers in a game of chase. Nearby, the proud owners of the tots are deeply engaged in conversation with another couple, childless so far. Only occasionally does mama hen throw an apprehensive glance to the playing children. Here a jogger in the latest and most popular brand of jogging gear, fiber technology meant to insulate yet be breathable, moves to her own beat. Across the way another jogger in last year’s attire, moves asynchronously. Both fastidiously tuned into whatever might be pouring from the small white earbuds they wore, immersed in the world behind their designer sunglasses. And there, a young couple, maybe college-aged, strolling aimlessly through the park, drunk on their puppy love for one another. They carefully select a bench and sit down, the boy’s arm seamlessly slipping around her shoulder. They see everything and take in nothing. The old man observes everything as separate planets, orbiting the axis of the park.

What the old man might be thinking, we can’t be certain of. He doesn’t seem to be elated, apprehensive, or downtrodden. In fact, his face is as blank as fresh canvas. Perhaps content is the best and nearest word we can use. No one seems to particularly take note of him, except us, the invisible spectators. And this is the way it has been for years. For exactly three years, nine months, two weeks and five days he has come to this park to sit on this very bench. Unless the bench is already taken, or it is raining.

Every day he usually has the same dull look. Perhaps he is waiting for someone. Perhaps he is waiting for death, cloak and scythe to come walking slowly from the other side of the grassy hill and take him away. Would he welcome it? Is it any longer the park or simply habit that brings him back every day? No one talks to him, and most people don’t notice him. Closing in on four years he has come, and every day bleeds into the next, a vibrant mural of faces and seasons.

But today is different.

……

Writing sample for an online content freelancers website:

The Four Phases of Comprehensive Emergency Management

Whether living in the hurricane-prone states of America’s Southeast shores, the earthquake-primed West Coast, or the potentially snow-packed states in the middle of the country, a government should have a Comprehensive Emergency Management Plan, not if, but rather when disaster strikes. The following will illustrate the four phases a municipality should keep in mind when discussing and planning.

Mitigation is the first step necessary when devising a plan of action. This is an extremely important first step, as it could be the difference between total calamity and more-or-less inconvenience. Mitigation is identifying risks before they happen, which has become entirely a profession in and of itself. Some disastrous consequences can be minimized or even removed entirely if those risks are first assessed and implemented before an emergency situation. These might include buying a back-up generator system for a hospital to maintain electricity, building walls and levees near a coastal town, or as simple as food rations stored in a dry room.

The next logical step, then, is Preparedness. After all the risks have been assessed, now is the time to employ steps to minimize the effects of a disaster if it isn’t possible to eliminate them entirely. Preparedness comes in many shapes and sizes, but an incredibly useful piece of preparedness is working with employees, friends, or family members to ensure there is a plan in place for a variety of scenarios. This might include safety meetings to discuss expectations, to drills effective to training individuals what to do and where to go when the unexpected happens.

Disasters, however, are inevitable; sometimes the outcomes can be unforeseen or greater than anticipated. That is why Response, the third phase, is equally crucial. If the first two phases have been approached with insight, it will greatly assist with the Response phase. During this phase, communication is essential–communication with first responders, disaster coordinators, hospitals, etc. Ideally, a communication infrastructure would be in place with several backups. If towers have been knocked out, alternate ways of broadcasting radio signals can let professionals know areas most affected and respond in a way to provide the most benefit, quickly.

Naturally, the fourth phase is Recovery. Even when the first three phases have gone exactly according to plan, a municipality or group is looking at the potential for structural damage, emotional damage, or other unexpected costs. Preparing financially for disasters is one important step in this phase, whether it be savings “for a rainy day”, a comprehensive insurance plan, or some combination therein. Employees on a governmental payroll, such as construction or debris removal, are also a key piece to this puzzle. As with any smart and efficient organization, these phases should be looked at not as a list, but rather cyclically; thus, as the Recovery phase is undertaken, it would be wise to assess what did or did not work to further reemploy into a future Mitigation phase.

If these phases are thought through effectively, it could make all the difference down the road, especially when considering spending and budgets. Preparedness is the enemy of chaos, and especially chaotic, haphazard spending. Disasters are inevitable, but by significantly decreasing the fallout and trauma, one can more effectively thrive in the world.

This was written for the most recent round of NYC Midnight. My prompt was: science fiction / buying a train ticket / a sleep mask.

ESCAPE

“Password?” A voice from overhead.

Xam tilts his head. It’s the final dregs of paltry winter–shorter every year it seems–Xam can’t help but feel the warm sun. It will be hot again soon.

He’s hit a dead end after twisting through a labyrinthine open-air market, ashy with merchants, warehouse workers, families, pickpockets, and conmen. Many checked multiple boxes.

There are substantiated rumors that his corner of the world is due for the next “Cleansing.” These days that meant anything from nanos to full-on nukes. He needed to get out. Hopefully north.

Xam had hoped to bring his youngest brother and mother, at least. But circumstances had led to a hasty escape. Population police banging at the door. His room the only one with a fire escape. He had only the clothes on his back, and meager life savings.

Looking over his shoulder now he mutters: “Elopemental.”

The bricks of the dead end alley open. A secret passage emerges.

“You are prepared to leave?” A man who identifies solely as The Trainman guides Xam through yet another maze of low stone corridors. Xam nods solemnly.

“The money?” The Trainman holds out his hand. Xam gives him everything he can. Desperate, desolate, disparaged. “Ok, this way.”

They enter a crumbling cavern of old train tracks, deep underground.

“Put these on.” The Trainman offers Xam what looks like some sort of bulky sleep mask. “And take this.” He offers a single white capsule.

“Why?”

“Can’t have you telling others how. I can only offer escape to paying customers.”

Xam contemplates. Could he go back now, save one sibling perhaps? Have they already been detained? Did little Martza and Japvier hide under the floorboards as instructed? Is there anything he can do right now but leave?

The choice feels obvious, if it even can be called a choice.

“What do I do?” Xam wants to follow directions, to leave this hellhole. But leave his family behind? Wouldn’t it be more noble to all die together?

“Take this.” Xam is given a small glass of water–such a precious resource these days, he wonders where they got it, or how clean it is–to swallow the capsule. “Now put these on.”

He slips on the sleeping mask gadgetry. The pill is already kicking in, must be nanobots, he thinks

A sort of sultry darkness follows. His last thought is what the train might look like.

*

Xam awakes in a luxurious coach car like the ones he’s seen in old western broadcasts, from two or three hundred years ago. Endless grassy hills roll by. Xam wasn’t aware there is grass left anywhere on Earth, where is he?

There’s a persistent itch near his eyes. He can’t help but keep scratching.

The train car glitches, doubles, wavers, and finally disappears into black.

Xam sits up and pulls off his eye cover. He’s laying in a dark warehouse. To his left and right are endless rows of sleeping bodies wearing masks. Somewhere in the distance the sound of a blast.

If you’re lost, you’re exactly where you should be.

I’ve decided to try to get some of my more creative endeavors out into the universe, pardon me while I figure out how WordPress works, and hopefully there will be more content here soon.