December 23, 2016 | Fiction
This guy’s old school, Roselli says to me over the phone, real old school. How old school can you be, I’m thinking, in a sport that’s already run its course in just a few years.
December 21, 2016 | Fiction
Because of a few weeks folding scratchy polo shirts three Christmases ago, I know where the blank door off the hallway to the break room goes . . .
I look across the street. I can see the bookstore. It’s right there. I think about kicking my way through the wall, making a sprint across the street. All before the marching band closing in comes stomping into view. Because after that I'm sunk. The flood gates will be open. And the entirety of the county's Christmas spirit will be let loose like a foul bowel movement from the asshole of a very old drunk. I decide against it.
an interview with Chris Bachelder, by Aaron Burch
I think ten t-shirts would be too many to write about, but I’m perversely hoping that twenty-two is somehow not too many. A writer can, I think, pass beyond “too many” or “too much” to a sense of rightness or aptness. The paradox: More than too much is sometimes not too much.
John Patrick McShea
Had a dream he was chained to a mountain while a buzzard ate his liver.