Fiction

Coming home 2.......

I am happy and excited now and I am about to get even more happy and more excited because I can see her coming. She doesn't look the same as the last time I saw her twenty-five years ago but the mind stores a person's way of walking and of moving. It is her.

Her name is Binky.

Arthur ensconces himself in a place at the Tuk Lae Dee. Not too crowded. Good. To his right a bright-robed West African entrepreneur, to his left a massive, lavishly tattooed, rather intimidating, bicep.

Drinking at a Nana beer bar, surrounded by women, thinking of women, haunted by one. More beer is necessary.

Thanks to Fanta.

I can’t remember how much Mekong and Coke has passed over the rim of my glass this evening but I am sure it is a considerable amount. I turn my head to either side and view a sea of people. White and yellow faces contorted in laughter but the music is so loud it almost seems as if they are crying. I am. No one notices.

Three weeks ago, and two days before my birthday, I received another card from Sai. Unlike the previous seven cards that were sent from Frankfurt, this one was postmarked in Berlin, leaving me in the best of moments—and they come infrequently--to happily if perversely wonder if something in her marriage took a wrong turn.

I kind of remembered her. I kind of remembered what she looked like. In the bar she probably looked great. She had a slim figure and a face that with a bit of make up might have looked beautiful. But in the morning, in the lift, she looked like the junkie she was. She'd said something about how lonely she sometimes got and how she'd like to come and talk to me. I didn't tell her not to. ... A new short story from TurkFist.

It was Christmas day and Jimmy was drunk and broke after spending seventy-two hours working the patch from The Street of Dead Artists to the Nana Entertainment Plaza.

. . . worldwide demand for reindeer meat . . .

On the glory of failure (as long as you have the finances to enjoy it).

Every man’s dream with every woman he has ever known is to be the Fly on the Wall.

In the dead of night what's the difference between a fevered mind and projections from Hell.