This was not a pizza dream.
A serial killer had gotten around to killing some friends, a horrible thing when I ran across San Francisco’s Polk Street looking for a futon shop.
Ramblings while on a slow suburban death.
Anna Pirhana Posts
This is a sweltering desert town where the temperature is on low broil setting.
As August winds down, the last of the summertime house parties come to an end.
In the Angelidis Dimitris short film “The Gift,” a fairy’s stolen scarf begins to have dire consequences for the possessor.
A construction crew of Americans doing a project in Africa run into problems when its bulldozer encounters an immoveable object. The crew attempt to move…
The recent weekend George Washington High School reunion picnic brought out memories of my own time wandering those dark and cold class hallways, where I snuck away from my last class to sit on the football bleachers.
The second record I ever bought was a song by Glady Knight and the Pips. I wanted to have that soulful voice of hers along with my own set of backup singers.
I bid adieu to the cold toilet seats in the bleachers, the outfield fence, the malted vendor of long ago that used to wear eyeglass frames without lenses and the one night my friends wandered the parking lot, lost inside a thick fog.
Somewhere in Japan, where there is a perfect conical volcano that puffs smoke like that high school science project, a diabolical scientist is plotting to scramble genetics to further mankind.