by Jim Stitzel | Jun 18, 2024 | Stories
This entry is part 2 of 5 in the series AvaThe cast-off tennis shoe lies discarded in the gravel by the side of the road, its white leather dry and cracked. Just beyond it stands a sign delineating, in large block letters, a speed zone of 30 MPH. Atop the sign a black...
by Jim Stitzel | Dec 23, 2019 | Stories
It’s been raining for two days straight, and I’m afraid to go out. I’ve seen what those torrents do to people who venture outside. Cascades of water sweep down the street, and the rain itself is dangerous as hell. I have cabin fever. We all do. But...
by Jim Stitzel | Jan 24, 2018 | Stories
I am a dead man walking. That’s not a metaphor, not a promise of a future event the way you usually think of it. I really am dead — and have been for some time now. I walk the streets of this city. I pass by people on the sidewalk, and they instinctively...
by Jim Stitzel | Mar 2, 2017 | Stories
I drag a finger along a wall as I walk around the room. I can feel the grainy surface of drywall and paint. Approaching the corner, my fingertips lift off the surface slightly, pulling further away as I draw closer to the junction of the adjoining wall....
by Jim Stitzel | Feb 25, 2017 | Stories
Grey mist sails past his face, and it is enough to shake him from his reverie. His mind is sluggish, slow, as though he is awakening from a dream. Perhaps he is, but then he has woken into a nightmare. He looks down at his hands, outstretched before him, palms up. His...
