A cowboy’s lariat is a tool of both sport and hard work – braids of stiff hemp, back in the day when I used one, but nowadays more likely of nylon or polyester. Throwing it may look easy in a rodeo, but it’s an acquired skill.

Describing that skill in words proved a different kind of exercise, but I liked the outcome and tried it out on the literary circuit.  The editors of Moria Literary Magazine (Woodbury University, Los Angeles) say they had more than 350 submissions for their new edition; mine was one of 52 they picked.
It’s a five-minute read ==>>here

 

 

When I worked at The Hartford Times, five or six decades ago, we were a long city block from the Travelers Tower. Most decent-weather mornings, some of its occupants spilled onto the sidewalk for a breath of fresh air – or nicotine – with paper cups of coffee.

I suspect times and customs have changed, but I enjoyed remembering those gatherings, and imagining a little fillip of surprise. The editors of the Westchester Writers Workshop enjoyed it, too, and published it in their semi-annual magazine, “Confetti”.
You can enjoy it too, by clicking ➙here

Seems every time I think I’ve finally exhausted the story potential of my three years at a college-cum-ranch in the California desert, another memory pops up.

The power company lineman who served our district was more cautious than anyone I’ve known, before or since: He worked entirely alone in places where a slip or fall would probably be fatal.

The story I concocted about him wasn’t accepted by the first few magazines I sent it to; perhaps too slow-moving, or too grim. Then I heard of Fatal Flaw Literary Magazine, which invited work “that considers the world through a cracked lens”…”that finds poignancy in unexpected places.”

They liked my The Lineman; you can read it online ==>>here
(Just click on the title, just below the cover)
Or ==>>right here

The Lineman

There’s a writers-and-poets group that meets monthly here at Seabury, often sharing short pieces prompted by a theme our leader offers. Whatever the prompt was in May, my fictive imagination conjured up an older man (not quite as ancient as I) working up an appetite to make firewood of a tree felled in his yard — and looking forward to his loving wife’s massaging away the aches of seldom-used muscles.

My friends liked the story and its unexpected ending, and offered a few suggestions. I tweaked the piece accordingly and offered it to a magazine that’s taken a few of my stories, Flora Fiction, whose theme for the summer issue was “desire.”

They thought my story fit the theme; it’s out now. You can read it online  ==>>here, and scroll to page 32. Or it may be easier to read ==>>right here

 

I knew when I started writing Penances that it would be a hard sell: Suggesting that Saint Peter might create a role for a former Mafia enforcer was impious if not sacrilegious. But the idea tickled my imagination; having tiptoed into irreverent territory, I decided to have fun embellishing my blasphemy.

Zimbell House, which had published several of my stories, invited stories on a “debt collector” theme, but wanted 4,500-word pieces. When I told my story in half that, and didn’t see any point to padding it, Zimbell’s editors put my Penances on their maybe-yes list, but ultimately decided against it. A bunch of others turned it down; nobody said so, but I suspect they didn’t like mocking anyone’s faith.

Then Caustic Frolic, the literary journal of the NYU graduate school of arts and humanities, invited stories on the theme of “limbo.” They’d already published two other pieces of mine, and I was confident they’d take this. They did, and it’s out now: Read it ==>>here

With all the talk about Roe vs. Wade, my fictive mind has been going back to remember – and imagine – what pregnant girls did when abortion was not only illegal but not available nearby, either. Was it a matter or shame or loss, or both? Was the secrecy of their decisions inviolable?

The protagonist of my Relinquishing decides to give her baby up for adoption. In retirement, she thinks that is all behind her — until a visiting speaker prods memory.

borrowed solace magazine liked it, and it’s out now — but they won’t let you read it without buying a copy, so read it ==>>here