For a good time, look-up Steven’s Shorts . . . 😉
Okay, so here’s where a simple little hyphen separates those of us with a genuine interest in a good short story, from, well, someone looking for another type of entertainment. These stories have no real connection to one another, other than me, but I like to think there’s a voice in there somewhere, a voice that, over time, will strengthen, sharpen, and begin to hit all the right notes.
Or perhaps a better metaphor would be a painter; my paper the canvas and pen as my brush. When writing, I strive to not just communicate an idea or a story, but rather to paint, with words, what’s in my mind’s eye, what I see as a story unfolds. I find no greater satisfaction than being told by a reader they “see” my story and feel intimately connected what they’ve read.
As my delayed 5:37 train out of New York rolled into Newark’s Penn Station, I was feeling the brunt of a fierce but familiar bi-temple headache. As I stood to leave the train, I saw my good friend the Web Developer in the next car. Before he could look my way, I ducked into the safety of the dimly lit vestibule. My withdrawal had nothing to do with monies owed or a tawdry affair [...]
[This piece was originally published summer of 2011 in the now shuttered--which I don't think was my fault--New York Press, a free "throwaway" paper available in some of the finest sleazy dive bars in the city. And, if you managed to make it all the way to the back page, you would have found, in print, my freshly poured heart and soul... directly across from "24-hour Erotic Massage" and "men seeking ???"] When Gary, my [...]
Entering the mood-lit cafeteria-turned-dance floor, I ducked under the hanging crepe paper to the relative safety and anonymity of a dark corner. I scanned the room. It was mostly jocks, cheerleaders, and an assortment of other popular people. No one I actually knew. They were paired up or in groups, laughing and joking. It took all of 5 minutes to realize I didn't belong. Three decades later, it’s a memory so vivid I [...]
I worry a lot. It’s most likely something I got from my mother. She worries…she worries when I worry, and she worries when I don’t. I’ve inherited her innate ability to know when to worry, and worry at times there’s nothing to worry about (the calm before the worry storm). It’s worked—the worrying I mean. It’s kept me from getting into trouble from swallowing gum and gluing my insides together, or from going blind [...]