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The Plight of Thaddius Bia

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Thaddius Bia rose drearily, typical of the day that was in it. Silly to feel such dread about a procedure that he had undergone so many times.  Purely psychological.

His protein shake didn’t go down as easily as other mornings and his daily workout- specifically targeting the Dadini and Affetare muscles- seemed that bit more gruelling than usual.

He was alone in the appartment, as he was most mornings. His wife, Andrea, took their children Portia, 6, and Lucius, 10, with her to the penthouse suites to help the privileged prepare for their day. The children eagerly performed whatever tasks were assigned to them in return for snacks.


No Wiggle Room

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Lainie sat staring at the unopened envelope. She let out a long sigh, sliced the package open, and slid the contents out onto the kitchen counter.

Three hours later, envelope in hand, she entered the restaurant looking hotter than a jalapeno. Dark curls swept up off her neck, her dress of champagne-colored lace blended with her creamy skin. She turned every head in the place … except two.



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Dancehalls of the Old West were

centers of what might be considered

fine art. There were no others.


“Music has charms to soothe a savage

breast, to soften rocks, or bend a

knotted oak."


“Was it the Arnold?” the woman in large green overalls and a sheepskin was shouting out in the middle of 17th street, wrangling the traffic around her.  “Or just the Edward, was it?” she yelled.  “Or the Steven?  Steven the Arnold...was that it?”


Light Up My Life

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Sylvie was flighty, losing her pocketbook, glasses, cell phone – something – every time she came back from one of those lab visits that paid for her rent.  “I can’t hold onto anything,” she said in mock horror.

More horrifying was when she lost an arm on the West Side and her torso was found in the Bronx.

We met while I was working at a coffee house on Avenue B.  She referred vaguely to her job at a university uptown, but then always changed the subject.


The Last Hurrah of General Jackson

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At midnight, General Nathaniel Jackson wasn’t expecting uninvited guests. He stifled a belch and listened to their moonlit conversation as the summer heat attacked his sweat glands. “Robbing the Park Avenue bitch was stupid,” a male voice said.

The General poked his nose out of his quarters to catch a glimpse of the interlopers who’d invaded the area surrounding his cardboard box.


Mr. Rempel

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His name was Mr. Rempel.

Jill learned of her seven-year-old’s “new friend” one Sunday afternoon. She had dropped the last dollop of chocolate chip cookie dough on the greased baking sheet. She held out the empty mixing bowl.

Chelsea shook her head.

Jill arched an eyebrow.

“Feeling okay, honey?”


Kiss of Life

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I stepped out of the locker room and onto the deck of the pool, my towel tucked under my arm to hide the dumbbell I had stolen from the weight room.  It was half an hour before closing time on a frigid winter night.  The pool area was empty except for the lifeguard, who sat high in her chair, leaning back, legs crossed, twirling the blond curls of her hair with her index finger.  She wore sweat pants over her bright yellow one-piece swimsuit.  She glanced at me when I entered, snapped her gum, stared at the oversized clock on the opposite wall.


The Body Shop

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Some people are born lucky while others are not and Henry was most definitely part of the latter group. Being out of work and soon to be homeless, this wasn’t how Henry had envisioned the start of his adult life. His sister was moving to Spain to be with her boyfriend and was selling her flat which meant Henry had to find somewhere else to live. But first, he needed to find a job.


Winter Light

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“Six billion dollars, Mr. Day,” her words took eerie flight throughout the empty gallery.

It was a Sunday morning and just before dawn. From the first floor of The Old Harbor Gallery, I stood listening and watching beyond the elegant silhouette of the curator and through the forty foot windows. From the eponymously named Cliff’s Edge Lighthouse, the slow rotation of a light filled the gallery and the inlet shoreline of Lake Superior.

“Mr. Day.”


He Lives

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Smoky clouds of blue sorcery danced above the rectangular, wooden table. The Aélkyn child concentrated, casting the healing spells he’d learned over the course of his youth studies. Sweat trickled down his plump face and his hands trembled as if stricken with the Shaker’s Curse. But for all his effort, nothing worked. It seemed his best friend was beyond conventional healing.


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