Other Writing
Poems
Autumn Senses
The moist autumn leaves drifted from trees above
Radiant in their colors decorating the ground.
Westerly winds accelerate the felled leaves,
Blown in swirls on the asphalt and green grass.
Santa Monica Sunset
My head tilted back eyes squinting over the Pacific,
watching a rainbow of colors reflected in the sky. Above
the horizon as the fireball’s descent a calming force ablaze as I exhaled,
convinced that three shots of tequila had glided down my throat yet
nothing but glass of water in my hand.
Short Stories
The Plane Truth
“Did I really say that? I can’t believe she’s making a mountain out of a molehill. You can’t be serious!” Endless thoughts hurtled through my mind like a freight train rolling down the track towing two-hundred cars of coal. How could a mere eight words said aloud in the wrong place at the wrong time change my life 180 degrees within seconds? Learning is pain, my accounting professor would say in my first class in business school.
Have Meter, Will Travel
It all started rather innocently, that infamous night out with Steve Pendleton, affectionately known as Penny. It was August of ‘77, and it was a stifling hot, humid night in Tennessee. We lived in a 12-story building on the west end of campus, and I used to study on the roof with my cassette player blasting rock ‘n roll from the 70’s. We were running some errands before dinner, and Penny decided to drive us instead of doing the 25-minute walk each way. Penny had a weather-beaten ’72 green Chevelle that we nicknamed Bucky. It was a brief, scenic 8-minute drive to the restaurant.
Wrong Place at the Right Time
It was the summer of 1980, and I found myself in Houston after living in Chicago all of my life except for the four year stint in Nashville for college. I was the ripe old age of 24, and had reconnected with Craig, a fraternity brother from college who was in his second year of medical school. We were living together in a two-bedroom apartment, and life was good.
Procrastination Pays Off
Back in the 60’s around the time of Woodstock and the Vietnam War, I was a wiry, somewhat naïve sixth grader with my fair share of acne, living comfortably in a 3-bedroom house in a suburb of Chicago. It was an insular existence, and my only sibling was an older brother, then a freshman in high school.
