"Perko's Farm"

A back story to Stinking Rich

Perko Ratwick needed a change in plans like he needed hemorrhoids. He rocked his Harley onto its kickstand and walked to the water’s edge where a man stood fishing.

“Biting today?” he asked.

The man grunted and looked at the white bucket beside him. Perko peeked in and saw what had to be half a dozen scaly creatures, gills flapping on the top ones.

“These good eating?” Making conversation when he’d much rather knee-cap the fisherman. Four months of planning, a twenty-thousand-dollar down payment so this bugger could set up a suburban grow op, and now he calls to say the deal’s off? No explanation?

“Free food.” The man finished reeling in his line, shook a clump of weeds from its green and yellow lure, and cast again.

"Lucky for Me"

You ever notice how dawn happens? The way light seeps in under the motel room drapes right before you crash, and you recognize the pattern on the carpet as a stain? Or how one minute it’s dark and you’re trying to convince some bottle blond your crib is nearby and toasty warm. And the next minute, the car hood you’re both leaning on is slick with dew, she’s shivering, and you’re sober enough to realize you’re not about to wrap your arms around that. Dawn shatters reality. Or reveals it. Take your pick.

 

Published in Thuglit Issue 3, January 1, 2013.

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"Pitch Perfect"

“I brought my track,” she said.

He looked her up and down and leaned in for a kiss. When he caressed her back and ran his fingers to her hip, she twisted out of his grasp.

“Slip these in.” She handed him a pair of ear buds with oversized foam inserts. “Push them. Deeper.” She helped wedge the foam tight.

 

Published on Out of the Gutter January 27, 2014. Performed live with Mike Fitzgerald playing Xth Sense at Toronto Writers Coop Literary Cabaret, February 18, 2014 at Alleycatz. Read it for free here.

"The Ride"

Territory over there belonged to a gang out of Oshawa. Made no sense to Dirk. Hell, you could see the western shore from the clubhouse dock, practically smell the barbeques. You could definitely hear the parties. Packed with city kids tweaking their summers away, hammering to deep house, howling at the midnight moon. Money to be made. Easy money. But it was against the rules.


Published in Voices 2013 by the Toronto Writers Cooperative, September 2013. Original flash piece appeared at a terrific coffee house blog run by E. Victoria Flynn.

"Cut Bait"

Sam baited his hook the way his grandfather had taught him decades before. He ran a half inch of worm around the bend, let the next inch hang, then threaded a little more. Repeat. He did his best to ignore the incessant babble coming at him from the man sitting in the forward seat of the tin boat. It was the same damn thing every day, all summer. Every summer.

The worm wriggled. Sam let it wrap itself around his fingertips, spreading its trail of stressful slime and chocolate brown dung. He’d picked the biggest wriggler of the bunch. The man coughed and looked away but kept right on talking. Something about a stock swap. Like Sam should give a shit. He pinched the worm in half, letting the bottom end drop neatly into the paper box held between his boots.


Published in Voices 2012 by the Toronto Writers Cooperative, October 2012.