Coyly, "No peeking. Where's my shirt?"

He wore his gray cargo shorts and busted up Adidas sneakers. He styled his hair as only a seventh grader in the 90’s could, with lots of gel and a part down the middle. Today he was going to ask her to the dance. Although time won’t allow us into his bathroom that morning, it can be reasonably surmised that a personal pep talk was given in the mirror, or perhaps a bicep flex or two. But not too much; not to overdo it, because he didn’t want to lose his cool. She was wondering if she would get...

Time passed from November into December and we had already rung in the New Year that night. Dancing and fireworks, treks into the woods, well-versed songs, cards and cranberry-vodkas. We were the only ones left awake, and the noise around us consisted of drunken snores of old friends and the crickets and creatures around the lake house. It was well after midnight, and we found ourselves lying in the grass, a half-drunk bottle of champagne between us. “What did you think about that night?” I t...

This girl I knew forced me to circle her in the street. It was autumn, and we argued against the backdrop of a Texas night; our stage du jour. She reeled me in with ease, like a summer striped bass who took the bait and then debated whether to fight the line. She stopped abruptly and insisted upon it; threw her purse onto the damp pavement to call court into session. It rained that morning, so the ground and cement emitted that musty, city smell of a thousand sneakers walking on leaves, aspha...

It was dream and reality at once and I heard its zealous whispers with a new ear unaccustomed to the sounds of real New Orleans jazz. They were a six-man band swiftly playing music they had practiced for years, speckled with impromptu bubbles of solo performance. The listeners all held an eager posture and a reverence for what we were about to see as well as hear. The only sign in the cramped, ancient room said, “No pictures, please. Standing room only.” We represented a baroque cross-section...

twenty-six mullets greasy fuel, motor oil BigFoot growls to life

Simple distraction: where are you when I need you? His eyes wait for mine.

He explodes: ACHOO! I Bless him out of habit. The atheist thanks me.

Please stop saying, "loo." The fake accent has to go. You are from Houston.

It was dream and reality at once and I heard its zealous whispers with a new ear unaccustomed to the sounds of real New Orleans jazz. They were a six-man band swiftly playing music they had practiced for years, speckled with impromptu bubbles of solo performance. The listeners all held an eager posture and a reverence for what we were about to see as well as hear. The only sign in the cramped, ancient room said, “No pictures, please. Standing room only.” We represented a baroque cross-section...