The last few months have seen a few of my stories reach print in online magazines.

The most recent was a short story, Wildflowers, in Umbrella Factory Magazine. That was in the March 2017 issue and was a  full length short story.

Before that, in November, saw a flash fiction piece, New World, in 365tomorows.

I hope you enjoy them.


I called John.

“What Jake?”

“I feel better.”


“No really.”

John clicked his tongue on the other end. “Did I tell you my girlfriend shrunk my sweater?”

“This is serious.”

“Let me help you help me help you.”


“First I help you by telling you to listen to my tale of woe very carefully and sincerely thereby helping me, which will enable me to be in a state to listen to you which will help you.”

I paused for a second. “Against my better judgement, I think I understand.”

“My girlfriend shrunk my favorite sweater. That sucks. It’ll be windy and I’ll be walking around in inferior clothing. What if I want to impress a girl?”

“What about your girlfriend?”

“There are always questions, hypotheticals that we must always be prepared to answer, whether the girlfriend is around or not. If we don’t have answers, we are only passengers on the train of life.”

I stared at the clock, an hour off for a month. “That sounds suspiciously convincing. What about mystery, the spice of life stuff, where there aren’t answers.”

“The mystery is whether or not your answers are bullshit. There are things we can’t know but we must persevere in at least trying while hopefully not looking like an ignorant idiot.”

We paused and I wondered how to get this back to me. “That was a good sweater.”

“Thank you for the half hearted sincerity. You know what I don’t have time for this. I gotta go.”

“Bye. Thanks for the help.”

There’s a moment when you realize it’s not important and you just glide off into reverie, filling in moments with random memories that come like popcorn bursting, fully fleshed. The fear that the worries brought on disappears and you think, well, the world will move on with or without me, and that is the question, whether to join the world, to go down the river and listen to the current’s syllable and meaning as the sun rises and sets again, to breathe all you know into the soul of clay you find at your doorstep, to love the dreams others give to you as your own while you look into their eyes and see yourself, to reach out naked before the universe and say, “I want this, will you help me?” That is the end of days, when the winds culminate and you feel the soft breezes remind you that tomorrow is still there.

We live and love in this world,
one that is underwhelming and noisy,
sacred and lonely – the poor stepchild of the gods.
We listen as the noble titles in the universe are recited,
and wonder where we fit into the halls of fate.

If we found the blueprint of the universe,
    we wouldn’t understand it.
If we looked into the eyes of god,
    we wouldn’t see them.
If in end, our lives are a series of moments
    lost behind the veil of time,
        is there anything of us?

“Do you remember at what time the festival started.”

“Yes. I’ll just start telling what I remember. Don’t interrupt me, if you have any questions ask them when I’m done and I’ll think about them. At dawn, there was a mass in the church. Then everyone went home for breakfast. The priest had spoken about sharing and modesty. On the way out, men joked that if they were modest as the priest meant, they wouldn’t have anything to share. An hour and a half later, we went back to the church. When it seemed enough people were there, some one opened the door to church and out drifted a small low bank of incense, followed by eight men in black robes and heavy hoods with red fringes and ropes. Each carried a large cross that leaned on their right shoulder. The men chosen were large themselves, but the crosses made them seem miniscule. They walked out of the church, followed by the priest and alter boys with incense holders. The train walked down two blocks to the main street, with everyone following. More people were there, who began to walk with the procession. Out of the upper story windows, some people rested on their elbows and hung their heads outside to see everything. As we neared the sea, the crowd became larger. The atmosphere was solemn, but there was a low murmuring of people greeting, relatives catching up on each other, children losing their parents, occasionally someone in a house would loudly whisper down to some one below, and throw down bread or cheese. Read the rest of this entry »

I was talking to a friend who was at a crossroads in his life. He wanted to let the universe guide him. I think there’s truth in that idea, but people take it as an excuse to not be an active participant in their life. Here’s what I said to him: Read the rest of this entry »

Where ever I go I’m here. Everything bad happens to me here. When ever I try to go away I end up right back here. Damn it I don’t want to be here, I want to be there. Buddha says: tough luck.

A question that doesn’t already have an answer is a philosophical question, one whose answer makes up the rules for the question

Thinking you have the only truth is worse than being wrong.

The only thing worse than Black Friday Sales starting a day early is when Post Christmas Sales start a day early.

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