Category Archives: Prose

Saturday Night Russian

Posted on January 8, 2018 by John Biscello

   It was Jake who first called Anya the Saturday Night Russian. It started when Anya was twelve. Up until that point her wardrobe had been pretty subdued, pretty ordinary. Jeans or capris, T-shirts, sandals or sneakers. Then, seemingly overnight, … Continue reading →

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Digging in the Dirt

Posted on January 8, 2018 by John Biscello

   The episode played and we laughed at the scenes and punchlines we had seen and heard at least a hundred times. Our laughter was tracked on a loop, because no matter how many times we saw it, always Ralph … Continue reading →

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Center of Nowhere

Posted on January 8, 2018 by John Biscello

    I come from nowhere Daniel, and nowhere is the exact center of the world. Isn’t that exciting?    I agreed with Anya that it was, even though I wasn’t sure what she meant. And I knew if I … Continue reading →

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House of Incest

Posted on January 8, 2018 by John Biscello

Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn, novel-in-progress.    Toward the end my mother began to open up. Of course I didn’t know the end was coming, nor did my father.    My mother, during the last several months, had become a … Continue reading →

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Tendering Anya

Posted on January 7, 2018 by John Biscello

Anya and I started making out. It went on for a long, tangled while. I ventured to Anya’s breasts, smoothing my hands over them through her shirt. Then my hands went under her shirt and I was in exciting, unfamiliar … Continue reading →

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Young Forever

Posted on January 7, 2018 by John Biscello

Anya and I had almost three weeks. The flirt and tease of a young forever. It felt good to be with Anya in this new way. We were no longer ourselves, we were ourselves as a couple, this third and … Continue reading →

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Boneyard

Posted on January 7, 2018 by John Biscello

Sometimes you have to walk through the boneyard, in order to reach the garden.

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Monster

Posted on January 7, 2018 by John Biscello

Fiction is a monster. It demands, it consumes. It is a glutton. Enough is never enough. It won’t be satisfied until the unreal becomes utterly real, beyond real. Its sole desire is to usurp reality, to surpass it. It basks … Continue reading →

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Night-Thistles

Posted on January 7, 2018 by John Biscello

I could feel the music of a slow future dying inside me. And the past very much alive, like shimmering beatific flowers, like luscious night-thistles. The past is a changeable feast. Except it is a feast that eats and eats … Continue reading →

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Borscht and Seashells

Posted on January 7, 2018 by John Biscello

Today I had lunch at Boris and Vera’s. Vera made Borscht. She remembered how I used to love to come down and eat Borscht. It always felt exotic to me. Anya hated Borscht. Which is why Vera appreciated my appreciation … Continue reading →

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