Tag Archives: words

Remains of the Day

Posted on September 4, 2025 by John Biscello

The first spots were discovered, and contrary to my sense of fiction, they had nothing to do with extraterrestrials or loneliness. Nor poverty. Soon, no exact timetable, but soon my memories would no longer be mine. I would no longer … Continue reading →

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In the Dark

Posted on August 31, 2025 by John Biscello

I was vacant when he entered me, a ghost in a long corridor. In the distance, I heard low hissing. As if the world were losing air through a slow leak. I silently sang myself a lullaby from my childhood, … Continue reading →

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Final Cover

Posted on August 26, 2025 by John Biscello

Final cover for The Last Furies has been decided (thanks to all who voted), along with updates about the process of the novel and evolving audio-book version.

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Red Wind

Posted on August 18, 2025 by John Biscello

The stilettos of red wind go on pecking at me, at us. We haven’t seen our mother in seven months. She was taken away. I could present evidence of my mother— kitchens tattooed onto her elbows and wrists, walking the … Continue reading →

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Company

Posted on June 22, 2025 by John Biscello

I have always depended on the kindness of solitude to acquaint me favorably with the company of words.

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Outlaw Country

Posted on March 19, 2025 by John Biscello

“Outlaw Country,” an excerpt from my novel, None So Distant, published in Spare Parts Literary Magazine as part of their From the Desk series: Reports of fringy lore on lost highways. Point-counterpoint in a twangy battle of wills. Stay tuned. … Continue reading →

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Death Rides in on a Pony

Posted on November 20, 2024 by John Biscello

When Death showed up on a broken-down pony, I scoffed. This, really? What, Death said, looking around, unsure as to who or what I was referring. You’re Death, right? Yes. THE Death? You can check my I.D. And you’ve come … Continue reading →

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Outtake

Posted on November 19, 2024 by John Biscello

I saw the sign in the window: Lessons Learned/Karma Burned. I went inside. The studio reeked of frankincense. And cotton candy. Greeting me at the door, as if she had been waiting for me, was a tall, well-toned woman in … Continue reading →

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Distances

Posted on November 18, 2024 by John Biscello

In the catacombs of grief, she wandered. She wandered, without thirst, without hunger, without want. This frightened her. Had she lost her basic humanity? Why had she created such elaborate labyrinths in which to wander? Try saying that ten times … Continue reading →

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Without Proper Guidance

Posted on November 17, 2024 by John Biscello

They had me in a corner and ganged up on me. A team of guidance counselors wearing black turtlenecks, black Dickies, black wingtips, wristwatches, and spotlessly clean spectacles. Their voices harmonized in a harsh baritone chorus: Biscello (ohhhh…ohhhhh…sounded the echo)—what … Continue reading →

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