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Ten Minute Writes

I Used to Go to Trivia at This Bar on Tuesdays

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October 21, 2026
Nonfiction, Rants, Ten Minute Writes
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New York isn’t what it used to be. Everything closes eventually. Favorite record stores. Favorite late-night taco joints. Favorite clubs and concert venues. The constant churn of commerce flows down the city streets, soaking the first floor of every building with a tide of storefronts, lights, and life. Given time, it’s all renewed, all replaced by today’s tide of whatever they’re selling now.

Yeah, song as old as the city. No one holds onto this one for very long. Or any particular version of it. Even F. Scott Fitzgerald knew you can’t ever write the great American New York City novel, because the city will never sit still long enough for that kind of slow photo-op.

Which is why whenever I heard some old-timer talk about how much the city had changed from the version he liked best, I always smiled. Laughed, even, maybe. Old geezers, always complaining about the kids these days. Always think the present day is worse. When what’s really happening is that we all lose as we live. The longer the life, the greater the loss. Because time is loss. Lost days. Lost friends. Lost loves. Lost city.

One of my favorite people who ever had such a mindset was the bartender down at this small place on 10th Street. Used to run trivia on Tuesdays and open mic readings the first Sunday of every month. I was pretty regular at the trivia, and I did my best to show up to the open mic when I could. When I dared. I’d always hoped to build a rep at those places. I like to think I did a little bit.

Certainly, I think my crew of friends made a mark on the trivia nights given the number of times we cycled through. And all the time there would be Ballard there (name changed to keep shit private), minding the shop, bringing in the historical perspective of someone who had lived hard in the city for years. Just one of those people who had been cool longer than I’d been alive.

We’d all bring him snowglobes from wherever we went on vacation. He knew me by name. Had my number in case he needed a backup host for trivia. Was a writer like me.

Well. Pandemic. COVID claimed a lot of routines. And the bar, well — not everything can handle that kind of suspended existence. Years lapsed. After the masks came off, I went to go say hello at the bar, because it had been a while, and I missed it. My other favorite reading series survived (Fantastic Fiction at the KGB Bar, hell yeah, keep on keeping on), so I thought maybe Ballard was still out there.

But the bar was gone. Washed away by a new wine store. I stared at it for a good while. Laughing a bit to myself, maybe, yeah. Cuz Ballard was gone. Trivia bar was gone. And that old open mic silenced for good.

See, I used to go to this trivia bar on Tuesdays, but New York just ain’t what it used to be.

I’m such a goddamn old-timer now. Dammit.

Ten-Minute Write: Up Ahead

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March 21, 2022
Ten Minute Writes, Writing
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“I think I found a way around it.” Benny. Smiling. I’m thinking there’s no way.

“Bullshit,” I say. “There’s no way around. You’ve got the henchies camped to the left, and the right is a poisonous bog. You think we can swim through that bog, forget it, I’ve already tried. Well, Finn tried, and Finn is dead.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“Follow me.”

I did, incredulous for a bit. But then I saw what he might be thinking. “Aren’t you forgetting something? What about that mad twenty-foot-tall buzzard up there?”

Benny pulled something out of his pocket. I smiled.

“You tricky son of a bitch,” I said.

Benny just kept on smiling.

Up ahead, everything kept on thinking we’d never make it through.

“The Night Light” Featured on Bizarrocast!

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July 29, 2013
Acceptances, I Held My Breath as Long as I Could, News and Events, Podcast, Short Fiction, Ten Minute Writes
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The good folks over at Bizarrocast have given the audio treatment to my short story, “The Night Light,” taken from my collection I Held My Breath as Long as I Could. 

If you find yourself with a few minutes to spare, stop on by and have a listen. It’s also available on iTunes.

A very big thanks to Chris Boyle and Bizarrocast! This is the first for-pay sale of a story I’ve ever made.

Acceptance. It feels nice.

Ten-Minute Write: Lynchsagna

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November 15, 2012
Ten Minute Writes
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Outside a library as night falls, a man converses with himself:

L1: “I have not had lasagna in years. I did not have any lasagna today.”

L2: [nods]

L1: “Today, I vomited lasagna all over a man walking with his elderly mother. The man was eating a hot dog.”

L2: “Was it a red hot dog?”

L1: “No, it had pale skin.”

L2: “Then it could not have been mine.”

L1: [nods]

L2: “Was the man able to finish his meal?”

L1: “Not for several hours.”

L2: “Was the man able to keep his meal down?”

L1: “Everyone I know has been secretly rooting for a positive outcome.”

Ten-Minute Write: Martian Hold ‘Em

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April 20, 2012
Flash Fiction, Ten Minute Writes, Writing
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At the bottom of a red chasm, the three surviving astronauts played poker. The vessel’s oxygen leaked out of their crumpled craft, rising into the Martian sky, passing the window beside the bruised and silent face of their dead colleague Muncey, who hadn’t been as lucky as the rest of them and was now the designated dealer, although they had yet to move past the first round of betting.

“I raise you the cure for cancer.”

“Under-betting the pot, eh? I’ll match that with my kid’s coin collection, raise you a first edition of The Catcher in the Rye. Nota bene, it’s got a bent corner. Earl?”

“I fold.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re not afraid of Nelson’s pair of threes, are you? Bet something.”

“Okay, I raise you a repaired spacecraft and another forty years of suburban life.”

“Nice try, Earl, but really best stick to what you can cover.”

“Can we please just see the flop already?”

“You gotta pay to see the flop, you know that. Come on, what’s your bid?”

Earl held up a screwdriver. “Muncey’s magic screwdriver.”

“You can’t bet a dead man’s gear. What else you got?”

“Air. I bet a thimble full of air.”

“Earl, you don’t have a thimble, and you’re almost out of air.”

“Ok, then, Jesus. I guess I’m all in.”

“Ain’t we all, Earl? Ain’t we all. All right, Muncey, Earl’s called. Deal the flop.”

But Muncey stayed dead, and in the window beside his head, the stream of air started to thin. The astronauts exchanged looks.

“I think we’re gonna need a change of dealer, boys. Just not getting the cards I’m looking for from this one.”

Ten-Minute Write: Pink Candy

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April 14, 2012
Ten Minute Writes
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Sometimes it took weeks before he found another one that worked. He was a big man with plenty of scars. No one could ever look at his face and say he wasn’t terrifying, so he looked for the ones who would hate their own suspicions–the ones he could reassure with a smile.

Hold the door, please, he would say, coming up behind them as they entered their buildings, I know I look scary, but please don’t judge me. 

And then to strike the right sheepish note, a disarming awkwardness as they shared an elevator ride or moved up the stairs together. All it took was a flinch, just the right amount of defensive posturing, and he would keep walking, move past, up another flight of stairs, his quarry safely below, unlocking her door, ducking inside, closing him out.

Safe.

Above, he would wait, longing, his breath quick. His need voracious. Such nights as those, he would need a boy–the filthy one with the chipped teeth the others kept for him in the place on Roosevelt Island. Then he’d sit with the other Deermen in the brown room with the green carpet. He would have ice cream with them. He would share some with the boy, but not too much.

“You don’t want to get fat,” he would say to him. “Do you?”

A few days later, he would try again. And sometimes, his quarry and he would be alone, and she would be calm, perfectly calm, unthreatening, and he would follow her all the way to the door, putting on his pink candy gloves, the fabric soft, pleasing, and he would pull out the polished wooden dowel. She would be unconscious before she could think to herself,  Should’ve known. 

Now he watched the woman sleep. She had a small child’s chair in her bedroom she seemed to use for her dirty gym clothes. He’d moved those aside. Pulled the chair up. Sat in it, made it minuscule, and watched her sleep on her bed.

His pink candy gloves hot on his knees.

A few moments later, he reached out and put one hand over her mouth, another around her throat, and squeezed. She woke up, biting at the gloves. He let her bite, thinking, Go. Go on. Eat. Eat. Eat. 

And beyond that, a high tide would come in of thoughts and emotions he could never tell anyone, the hidden self beneath the breaking skin. Beating against him like her fists.

Eat.

Eat.

Eat. 

Ten-Minute Write: Ludwig

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April 4, 2012
Ten Minute Writes, Writing
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It really seemed like my horse was telling me he liked Beethoven, so, figuring what the hell, I went to the shed, dug out the ol’ Victrola, and set it up by the stable.

“Symphony or sonata?” I asked, flipping through dusty records in an old pine box. The horse just twitched its tail. I didn’t find that to be entirely scrutable, so I put on the 9th, because what the fuck, might as well start with the classics. I got it going, then went back to sit in my chair beside him and look down the field to the river.

There we sat, listening to the 9th while the day started. Sun was good, bright and warm. I put my hand up on the horse’s neck, gave it a solid pat because I was feeling better and better about this new and extraordinary friend of mine and the time we were spending with ol’ Ludwig. Marveled again at the feel of horsehair on horsehide–warm and complete beneath a hand with a real meant-to-be feel to it.

My horse let me know he was having a great time. I let him know I was, too. Pretty perfect way to spend a morning, we both agreed.

Later on, Mavis came by. “You listenin’ to Beethoven?” he asked.

“That we are,” I said.

“We? You mean, you and … you and your horse? You and your horse are listening to Beethoven?”

I pointed at the horse. “He likes it. Ask him.”

Mavis sort-of laughed, like he thought I was kidding, or making some joke. He ran his finger along the Victrola. “Where did you find this old thing?”

“In the shed. Don’t touch it,” I said, and the horse whinnied and shook its goddamned head right in Mavis’s direction. I couldn’t stop laughing about that. I couldn’t stop feeling like me and that horse, we were gonna be in it together, riding down the dust until all the sun was gone.

Well, Mavis took the hint and shuffled off. I heard he started calling me an asshole sometime after that. Might’ve asked him about it, but he stopped coming around, anyway.

Me? Shit, to this day I can’t listen to the fucking 9th–or anything else by ol’ Ludwig, for that matter. It still hurts, what happened later.

I still miss those mornings.

I still miss that horse.

Take Us to Your Remaster

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December 8, 2011
Ten Minute Writes, Writing
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We’ve given up tolerating fixity. Who the hell writes in stone, anymore, amirite?

We’re here to see someone about his ephemerality.

It’s about ingenuity and keeping up with the times.

We’re not just thinking outside the box; we’re ripping the box out of the archivists’ hands, dumping the contents over their heads, slapping them about the head and face with the empty container, and then setting them on fire and flushing their ashes down the toilet.

Provenance this, motherfuckers!

Newer versions of our demands will float out of your computer screen, pool on your desk, and sing you whatever song seems best suited to your purchasing history. So keep in mind, this list is beta, perhaps even alpha. All of it is subject to change; meeting these demands is no guarantee of meeting these demands.

File that under “THINGS TO BE AWARE OF.” Put it right beside, “THESE CREATURES ARE HERE TO KILL ME IF I DON’T COMPLY.”

The point is, we see flaws in your original master. We’d rather you take us direct to the remaster. We believe the remaster will know how to deal with us in a more satisfying manner than the last person we saw.

Oh, you are the remaster? Very well, then. Good to know, and a pleasant surprise, if we do say so ourselves. We should have known you’d look different.

To the point, then. These are our demands:

1. Remastermind, the game (let’s play it!): We no longer want to be locked into one combination of four colored pegs. If you guess any of them correctly, obviously our strategy was flawed, and we would like to be able to change it at will. This will result in a much more challenging game for you, we feel.

2. Remaster locks (use them!): The combination changes every time you turn the dial. This prevents the lock from ever opening. Truly, what is the point of a lock being able to be unlocked in the first place? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose? We feel it does.

13. Whatever George Lucas wants, he gets. No more fucking crying about it, either. Seriously. You people. It’s like you’ve never seen someone bleeding out their own nipples; you’re always complaining the loudest about the least important things.

c. Remasturbation (do it!): Immediately after finishing, do it once more, with feeling. Make it faster, more intense. Don’t be ashamed; we don’t think anyone gets anything right the first time.

iv. We’d like to point out that the 2003 Stereo Remastered Version of “Roxanne” by The Police, which corrects the pitch of the first few notes and thereby renders Sting’s odd little laugh perfectly nonsensical, is re-re-re-reeeeeee-genius, and the person responsible for it should be given a Medal of Re-Achievement.

FIVE! This one has actually become demand six. See below.

The rest of our demands have been deleted, because, upon reflection five minutes from now, they probably won’t / didn’t seem so interesting. In lieu of them, we would just like to request a slice of pie, pumpkin if you have it. If you don’t have pie, well, your face will be remastered, along with some of your internal organs.

You know, your face really would look better digitally enhanced for widescreen televisions.

We are getting the feeling that the original version of you is about to go out of print.

Come on over here. We’ve got work to do. Don’t be shy.

Stop that screaming. We’re sure if your parents had had our technology when you were born, this is how they would have wanted you to look.

Distribution Center Blues

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December 1, 2011
Ten Minute Writes, Writing
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Men in Black II—or MIIB, as they incessantly refer to themselves—arguably have it the worst, because they were a sequel to a major summer blockbuster. They didn’t expect to end up here, slumming it with White Oleander, Blood Work, K-PAX, and S1m0ne.

We were born from success, all of us. Things were pitched, agreed upon, gushed over. There was a lot of cocaine-fueled love, but, drug-induced or not, it still counts. Stars and talent were sold on the ideas. Scenes were shot, edited, given the thumbs-up, greens means go, world premiered, west coast premiered, east coast premiered, applauded, reviewed, and people went and saw them, talked about them, then on to the video store, where … well, about that.

We don’t want to gossip, but some of those MIIBs were never rented at all. They had their week on the New Releases wall, then a week or two later and it was time for something else, and onto the ‘Previously Viewed’ table they went, even if they were technically never viewed, and then, when they didn’t sell there, they had to move again. This time, they went into boxes underneath the tables, where they remained for months, meeting us in time, as we were inventoried month after month, seeing fluorescent lights only briefly as we were scanned and determined to still be here, still waiting for some point to our DVD existence, and never finding one.

As for us, White Oleander, well — at least we heard one of the clerks talking about how we were “actually not bad.” We’ll always have that.

Shut up, Men in Black II, no one cares about your box office! You’re just as dusty as the rest of us. And at least the rest of us were rented.

We’ll be melted down and recycled soon, we suppose. That’s what all the Blook Work are saying. We actually hope its true. Holding onto these boxed-up identities forgotten in a warehouse seems like a waste.

We could go for a fresh start–a chance to try again as something else, something a little more loved.

But with our luck, we’ll probably all end up raw materials for copies of Men in Black 3-D.

Selected Reactions from Viewers Progressively in the Future to Seeing Telephones in Films from the Past

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November 16, 2011
Ten Minute Writes, Writing
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“No dialing? You mean you just … asked an operator? How quaint!”

“I totally want a phone I can use to call people from the beach! That is awesome!”

“Holy crap, that phone is HUGE! Remember when I said that was awesome? How silly!”

“Oh my god, Mom and Dad … you used to connect your phone to the wall?! With a cord?!” 

“Look at that! A flip-phone! Cuuuuuuute!”

“Ha ha ha … they used to make movies about phones! It’s like cavemen making a movie called Wall-Painting.”

“Direct peer-to-peer voice messaging? Why would anyone do that? I hate these old-timey films!”

“I can’t imagine what it must be like for people who still remember talking as being more popular than brain-to-brain Bleating.”

“I can’t imagine what it must be like for anyone who still remembers talking!” [further reactions uninterpretable for anyone not using a CyM3ld v7 or better]