Tag Archives: Prose

Matroyshka

Posted on December 16, 2025 by John Biscello

   He often reflected, while writing, upon himself, writing: reflecting another. Who he was, who he was not. Absence and presence locked in intimate simultaneity, a cogent pairing. Who is this Other, writing? And does he reflect upon me? Why … Continue reading →

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Crumbs

Posted on December 16, 2025 by John Biscello

   That’s him , yeah. That’s right, every day, from late morning to dusk, he sits on that bench and waits for her. I don’t know who she was. His love who left him. Or died. Disappeared. There are all … Continue reading →

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Giant Killer

Posted on December 16, 2025 by John Biscello

   The first thing Josie thought—He looks like Hemingway.    The second thing—He reminds me of my grandfather.    Knowing that Sir James (which was how he had introduced himself with a dramatic flourish—I, my dear, am Sir James) had … Continue reading →

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My So-Called Life as a Cartoon

Posted on December 16, 2025 by John Biscello

   Being a cartoon is not all it’s cracked up to be. Don’t get me wrong, when I first made the conversion from human to cartoon, I considered myself the luckiest sonofagun on the face of the earth. All my … Continue reading →

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Setting

Posted on December 15, 2025 by John Biscello

He notices the dark red lipstick on the rim of the glass, displaying a half-moon smudge. For an instant, his vision moves beyond the glass and settles on the inner lapel of the jacket she’s wearing, comparing its brighter red … Continue reading →

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Locomotive

Posted on December 15, 2025 by John Biscello

   You didn’t dream her, you who are slowly climbing aboard a locomotive, being watched, so you feel, by whom? The needling press and burn of eyes on your back, itchy hot collar, you scratch, you cough, you take a … Continue reading →

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A Moveable Feast

Posted on December 12, 2025 by John Biscello

   The first time I saw Hemingway he was seated at a table on his terrace overlooking the train station. It was raining that day and I was waiting on the platform opposite the terrace. I chanced to look up … Continue reading →

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Torch Song

Posted on December 12, 2025 by John Biscello

   She is there. She is always there, in the corridor. And she is lonely. This much I know. Lonely as a form of cold that you cannot cover with blankets or insulate against with coats and scarves and such. … Continue reading →

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Talisman

Posted on December 4, 2025 by John Biscello

Wordwise, edges and ledges: we are falling off. We, as in word-wielding also world-wearied, we, an endangered species, parrots with branded larynxes … falling off. Ask a stranger to cup your balls (male or female you, no matter) as you … Continue reading →

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Intimate Measures

Posted on December 3, 2025 by John Biscello

It is a lonely road. The road made of words. The words stay put. The feelings don’t. The words crystallize, become the flambed edges of something soft in the center. It is a struggle within, and a turn-on, mud-wrestling false … Continue reading →

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