I don't even bring reading material on Metro anymore. The scenes are that tasty.
Saturday evening, the 124 to Georgetown. A drunk guy boards at 3rd and Pine and sits close. Whats my name, where do I live, do I want his number? When he persists--what neighborhood you live in, gurrrl--I say, Hey, if you had a daughter, would you want her telling strange men where she lives? He allows he wouldn't. And retreats.
My next seatmate is an overweight teenager, who asks to use my phone. I dial for her, hand it over. She starts crying and bawls into the phone for awhile. Nervous--will she bolt?--I keep an eye on her. A guy sitting in the accordion section of the bus shakes his head. I'm from Chicago. This is the weirdest bus I've ever been on.
The woman across from him says tartly, Then you haven't been on very many buses.
There's a shadow constantly hovering at my shoulder. For all my gallivanting into the social whirl, nevermind the positive social media...
Ever wondered what it takes to get a piece of fiction published? I'm not talking New Yorker type of prose. That's a rarefied world ...
Check out my new video, a brief reading from a story published this past spring in Opossum.
Welp, after a half-year experiment in social media, BSP has returned to its blogger roots. I hated Faceborkland, tbh. Sure, it was easier t...