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Mr. Palm Beach

Title of Publication, Date

"Now that he’s dead, my father’s hungrier than ever. That’s according to my mother. On a Monday afternoon in August, five months after he sauntered back into the kitchen despite having just been buried, she calls me up to gripe."

Butt Crack of Dawn_edited_edited_edited_
Black Coffee_edited_edited_edited_edited

"The café itself isn't disgusting. It has everything required by Maine state law: charming brick walls, a heady dark-roast smell, soulful people slouched over laptops."

Projectionist_edited_edited_edited_edite

"There's a sleeper down in the theater. I've seen them before, these sleepers, and never know what to do."

While I Have You_edited_edited_edited_ed

"Since I got back from leave, I've been off. Like there’s this hissy static in my head all day. And I don't sleep. I rest, or I stay in bed for a long time without moving, but that's not sleep, not really."

I'm overhauling my short story Mr. Palm Beach (formerly called Hungry). Other titles I'm considering: Exit Strategy, How to Abandon Ship, Night of the Living Dad.

Das Booth, a short story in which a projectionist reflects on Heisenberg's uncertainty principle as expressed in 1980s screwball comedies, is cooling its heels until I can think of a different angle. I guess that means it's both a story and not a story.

FYI, I've frameworked a preliminary iteration of another jargon-based short story. Tentative title is Agenda: Unpacking a Dream I Had with Several of You in It, Q4 Results If Time. Guesstimate on completion is somewhere between I have no idea and ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Keep it on your radar!​

​I'm not sure if Baby Driver (better title TK) is a short story, a novella, or a novel, but it's in the works. Current first line: "At seven months of age, Janie was not licensed to drive." 

In The Intimacy of Perception, a Fellini-obsessed film student unreliably narrates a quiet story in which he's oblivious to something right in front of him. Out for consideration.

Crushing guilt, familial dysfunction, and suffocating silence are the backyard games on tap for a Fourth of July barbeque in Winning at Chicken. Out for consideration.

I'm working on an untitled sci-fi novel. My realistic short-term plan is to get it made into a Hollywood blockbuster so I can retire to an island off the coast of Maine, getting to the mainland by boat, by submarine, by helicopter, or by a submarine that turns into a helicopter. We'll see.

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