Tag Archives: Prose

Tracy

Posted on February 3, 2017 by John Biscello

   I won’t say Tracy was the first girl I ever fell in love with, but she was definitely my first obsession. I was sixteen at the time, she was fifteen.    She was a friend of my friend, Camille, … Continue reading →

Posted in Prose, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

My Unreal Family

Posted on February 3, 2017 by John Biscello

   At times I feel like I invented them, along with the rest of my childhood. Which, in a sense, I suppose I have. They are who they are they are, regardless of my perceptions and analysis, yet  I have, … Continue reading →

Posted in Prose, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

At the Bottom of Childhood’s Well

Posted on August 12, 2016 by John Biscello

   It is a magic time, it is a deadly time.    We are fresh and newly forming, we excel in discoveries, delight in newness.    Our souls are malleable, there is fluidity and grace oozing from us, and with … Continue reading →

Posted in Prose | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Some Kind of Summer

Posted on August 9, 2016 by John Biscello

   J.B., I have to kill someone by the end of summer.    Joe Ninj stated this casually, as if it were a school assignment or project with a deadline.    Five minutes earlier we had been integrated into our … Continue reading →

Posted in Prose, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Glow

Posted on August 8, 2016 by John Biscello

The coke parties were my favorite. It was when everyone was happiest. Everyone meant my father, my mother, and their friends, Teddy and Debby. Occasionally, Debby’s brother, Wayne,  was part of everyone. My mother would say—Teddy and Debby are coming … Continue reading →

Posted in Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Dirty Dancing in the Dark

Posted on July 29, 2016 by John Biscello

   Brooklyn, the Walker Theater, 1987.    I am twelve and precariously balancing on the shoulders of Fat Brian.    Come on, you’re not getting any lighter, Fat Brian shouts.    I reach up and lock my fingers around the … Continue reading →

Posted in Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

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 →

Posted in Artwork, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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 →

Posted in Artwork, Poetry, Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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 →

Posted in Prose | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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 →

Posted in Prose | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment