Tag Archives: Prose

Totem

Posted on June 27, 2016 by John Biscello

   Here, her mother said, pressing something into her palm.    A pinch.    A pinch, breaking skin, spreading blush and heat.    She looked down—her palm now tattooed with a tangle of dark glyphs; a concert of spirals, curlicues … Continue reading →

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Flint

Posted on June 8, 2016 by John Biscello

A scissored valentine walked into a hard case. The floor, a silent witness, held its tongue. It was one of those Sundays that was acting like a Tuesday. Scrambled eggs, jazz, and a wet book of matches. This wasn’t going … Continue reading →

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Far End of the Bar

Posted on May 12, 2016 by John Biscello

   I could write circles around him, Joe said, sipping his whiskey. Look at him, sitting there, Mr. Smug, Mr. Infallible. I should go over there and give him a good what-for.    He’d knock your block off, Bob responded … Continue reading →

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How Tomorrow Moves

Posted on May 11, 2016 by John Biscello

It was a matter of helium-speak, and tomorrow-talk, and bright ribbons of noise amounting to nothing. We, hanging out on the street-corner, conducting ping-pong volleys and raps, ferocity and verve, building ourselves up—who we were and were not, what we … Continue reading →

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After Hours

Posted on May 10, 2016 by John Biscello

Lenny Bruce, seated on a chipped wooden stool, cigarette dangling from his lips, slumping forward, shoulders slack. His mouth puckers, the cigarette jumps to attention, he draws in fiercely, then exhales a series of bluish halos that float and dissipate. … Continue reading →

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Raising the Bar

Posted on May 9, 2016 by John Biscello

   Dylan Thomas falls off his barstool in Heaven.    Lying on the sawdusty floor, he slurs something about a white horse. And chains, and the sea.    God, who gave Lucifer the night off, is tending bar. He comes … Continue reading →

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