Tuesday, February 15, 2011


First, I have a story at DOGZPLOT. It's a tiny story. DOGZPLOT does a magnificent trade in tiny stories. I feel very honored to have this story published. In it, I get to be very gay, very nostalgic, and very brief all at once.

There's a place in my hometown called Ghost Bridge. I've been there. When you're in high school, you go there. When you're home for break in college, you go there. There's other places like this in my hometown. When you live in the country, every little thing is haunted.
There's a small cemetery in my stepmother's backyard. It's strange to sit on lawn furniture and wonder about the bodies just beneath you while your father barbecues on the patio.

My mother lives on the upper floor of an old house. It's haunted too. Once, when I was in town visiting, I was in bed, and something started pulling the sheets. How about that? I pulled them back and went to sleep. I haven't had a problem since. I may have heard voices. Voices don't bother me. I like to listen.

Josh took some pictures of me last night. I look like an even mix of my mother and my father. I'm their first child together. My brother is turning out to look more like my father. There are no judgments attached to these observations. In the end, we just look like ourselves.

I'm writing another ghost story.

Valentine's Day is something you may or may not want to hear about. Josh and I treat Valentine's Day like the rest of our week but all rolled into one day. We eat more than we should. We don't get each other anything. I think Josh got me a cookie one year. We did go to a wedding this Valentine's Day. It was a very short wedding. I'm so happy for these people, you have no idea.

It sometimes occurs to me that I have a stepsister. We are not competing for the same prince. If we were, this would be a fairy tale. We went to high school together. She has babies and a husband. I have a "husband" and one of those tiny plastic babies you find in king cakes at Mardi Gras. It's sitting on a bookshelf. It will not grow up to be a doctor, which is a shame but not a surprise. My stepsister and I are both housewives at the moment. I wonder if she can cook? I can cook, in case you didn't know.

The things that matter to me could probably fit into a large tote bag. I am, of course, counting the things that cannot move of their own accord.

It seems like it might rain.


  1. You remember telling me that the house I rented on Belleview was haunted? I never felt like it was, but Brian told me once that he was practicing his mandolin in the mirror above the fireplace and he saw a man in the doorway behind him. For some reason this post made me want to tell you that.

  2. That man in the doorway was me. I'm a sucker for men who play bluegrass.


From the mouths of beasts.