I think I’ll go to Happy Hollow Park instead.
After a long, hard day of slaying dragons, the last thing I want is to come home and find the Sackville-Bagginses trying to auction off my belongings.
What if instead of phones we carried toasters around with us, taking photographs, and occasionally pressing a button when we wanted some toasted bread?
Speaking of General Tso’s chicken, I made up a story a while back about its origins.
My name is Scout. It’s a dumb name for a girl but then Jem is dumb name for a brother.
My name is Nick.
A short story, in installments. It’s based on a comic strip I started. Feel free to provide constructive criticism. Enjoy. The alien and the mayor
Gilligan Pistachio emerged from his mental fog. The intercom buzzed a second time. Miss Zweig, his sexy secretary, was calling to him in Brooklynese. “Mistah Mayah.” Gil picked up the handset. “What is it?” “Mistah Mayah, an alien scientist is here to see you.” Gil opened his mouth to answer but didn’t say anything. Alone […]
I’ve moved my poems, short stories, and other creative works to the Right brain category. I want this site’s content to be driven by the blog posts (the blog functions as a database) rather than static pages. If you are looking for something, use the search function in the sidebar menu. Artwork and some other […]
“God bless the food!” That was how dinner began.
Terminal moraines are some of the worst places on earth.
Ten dollars? I thought he was going to give me sixty.
Restaurants like this one don’t normally have maitre’des. When given his baked potato, Ernie began to mash it with his fork. “Gaa!” screamed the busboys. “Gaa!” cried the waiters. “Gaa!” said the maitre’de, “Gnarl them potaters!” November 4, 1999. Inspired by a comment made to me at lunch in college.
Or how George B. Dorr foiled a sinister Bolshevik plot
Dale finished pouring gasoline around the discotheque. When he dropped the match, the building burned in all the fabulous colors of the seventies (like orange and avocado green). Something exploded deep within the building and Dale was cut in half by a flying piece of a giant disco-ball. November 4, 1999
“Trick or treat!” “Here you go.” “What is that?” “It’s a brussel sprout. Make sure you clean it before you eat it.” “It looks like a vegetable.” “It is a vegetable. You can’t have treats at every house.”