Short-fiction

Dining with Derrida

Derrida Image

If Jacques Derrida had eaten at fabled restaurant, Noma, in Copenhagen, and had later run into Chef René Redzepi, he might have been heard to say the following (Warning: This is a fictional monologue. Many of the author’s interpretations of Derrida’s philosophies and mannerisms have been considerably exaggerated.): Chef René, I was at your restaurant…

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Slightly

“Slightly.” That was how she put it. As the wisteria grew around the neck of the fallen buck, a hand of tree wooed an unknown number of identical chipmunks through an eye socket, while the berries were red in the meadow with the trees cut squarely behind the deserted pasture, and the early wrinkle of…

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Excerpt Culled From My Novel

“Kad, don’t be ridiculous!” Victoria laughed into the fuming sunlight and Kad laughed louder and I accosted another Bellini and walked back over to my quiet frontal seat to begin skimming through a magazine on military technology. The pictures of the now-four-year-old fighter jets excited some primal appetite for national success. The world is still a jungle, pleaded…

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Fire of Gracetown

WHEN THE WIND drew up the fire around Gracetown, an inverted tornado of orange surging round the steeple of Reverend Nevil’s church, Lida kissed me on the shoulder and said, ––“It’s over now. You check the nets and I’ll start a fire.” ––Fire was absurd and needed. No one was hungry but everyone needed food.…

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The Bath

Kis Adriai carried her hornbook against her ribcage. Literacy was something she had taken easily to in the grammar school erected for boys. It’s the first thing I remarked upon when someone asked: the item about the boy’s grammar school. It worked quite well, really. I was her tutor. She had other tutors and masters,…

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Criticizing the Very Gigantic

At the age of thirteen, one should not be expected to discern between good literature and awesome books. Victor Berry hadn’t read an awesome book since he was in the fifth grade. The Hoover Claus Junior Critic Silver Pen award had gone to Mr. Berry in late December of 2003. It was elementary school winter…

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Children of Carvin

A leafy eyeball sat near his knee. Everything smelled of iron and rot. One could hear the death coming from several pastures away, the smoke rising above wet sod to plot a specter of life where below men tearing fougasse and sharing wine and bidding good afternoon had been seen only an hour before. While…

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The Trees

The axiom might as well have been, It’s better to die by suffocating in one’s sheets than endure a second night with Mrs. Rothschild. “My dear, you must know that I bare absolutely no closer a relation to that old family than Venus bares to Mercury,” in her planetary drawl. She resembled an old, finely…

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