by Jim Stitzel | Mar 15, 2011 | Stories
There was murder in her eyes. He saw it clear as day. Problem. He rubbed the tender spot where she’d hit him with the blunt — and his heart skipped a beat when she pointed the barbaric weapon at him. “You’re not actually going to use that thing, are you?” he...
by Jim Stitzel | Dec 20, 2010 | Stories
He vomits, on all fours and stomach heaving. Long, ropey strings of fluid slide from his mouth to the ground, wet and glistening. It is the color of infected phlegm, the smell powerful, overwhelming. His belly clenches again, and he vomits more of the greasy strands...
by Jim Stitzel | Sep 3, 2010 | Stories
He soared. He had always wanted to fly, and now he was doing just that. He had no feathers, no wings, but he was flying just the same. The special magic that fathers possessed had made this possible. He laughed with the euphoria of the moment. The wind blew his hair...
by Jim Stitzel | Aug 18, 2010 | Stories
He works quickly, his deft hands flitting over the instruments with a skill that comes from a vast history of experience. He talks while he works. “You are my failure,” he says. “I blame only myself.” He sets one tool down on the tray, picking up the next. “I raised...
by Jim Stitzel | Jul 25, 2010 | Stories
Lightning flashed, and the boys ran, pumping their legs as hard as they could. “Did you see that?” the first cried. “No, and neither did you! Keep running!” “I can’t,” came the reply. “I’ve got to stop for a sec.” They dropped behind a fallen log and sucked air in...
