Short Story: "How To Make Change"

The Cambio Man makes change in the street. He stands on the corner across from the bank ATM where big bills spit out in denominations too large for the local street vendors and merchants to break. The Cambio Man breaks bills.

He breaks bread with bankers, too, and keeps his cut, though he still lives in the old neighborhood. He walks past the old stores. He runs the bases with the children on the old ball field north of the harbor. When he works, he holds his Cordobas behind his back in a thick folded stack consisting mostly tens and twenties, with the 500 Cord notes and U.S. $20s on the inside of the wad. The Cambio Man dresses nicer than everyone else and stands in the shade. He doesn't sweat. He wears a pair of khakis, white-soled shoes and a crisp plaid shirt.

"Cambio?" he asks. "Cambio?" he asks. "Cambio?" all day. "Cambio?" every day.

Read the other 629 words in the short story "How To Make Change."

Short Story: "Little Sue"

Drawing by the author

"Sue always felt like she was missing something.
"Nothing physical.
"Nothing emotional.
"Nothing inside.

"Sue always felt like she was missing the event, some function, some perimeter of sunshine and warmth filled with friends and laughter and red cake with cream-cheese icing."

Read the other 1253 words in this story.

Short Story: "Baiting"

When I worked in Idaho, some guys told me about how you could put stale doughnuts in the same place in the woods for a week. Then, one day, you could go to that place in the woods without any doughnuts and shoot the bear who can't resist his own sweet tooth.

This story is somehow about that.

"Justin tugged at the refrigerator door. The magnetic suction held, so that when the door eventually opened many jars and small containers in the door tray jostled. A nearly empty plastic bottle of Italian dressing, which had been turned upside down, fell over on its side like a book without a bookend. He noticed the date on the side of the bottle: five months expired."

Read all of "Baiting."

Short Story: "Stitches"

Click on this image to download the short illustrated book "Stitches"

Unlock the Amazing Power of Intern Labor
Working as a creative contractor with interns in 2011 reminds me of when I was outsourcing my own job as an engineering contractor in 2001: One step ahead of the axe you've been hired to sharpen. Haha.

Luckily, it's difficult to outsource wit to China, Korea or India. (Oh, look out: I hear Stevie in marketing is pretty good at Microsoft Word!)

If "intern" is the new euphemism for "cheap labor supply," then we may as well have some fun during office nappy time. It's no vendor trip to Hsinchu, but art director Joe Points and I put together this folktale based on the surreal dolls and paintings of Spokane artist Dara Harvey.

Never stop making. The world is too lazy to stop you. Here's some reading music:

Short Story: "Little Herons"

Toasters image from Colors magazine.

This is a story about a fruit that tastes good only after it's rubbed against human skin.

"... With our wet shirts sucking against our stomachs, I agreed we would follow Audubon on a path behind the store that led away from the lake, even though we both knew we were not supposed to cross to that side of the road. He was not supposed to leave the store, either, but he did. He put a sign in the window that said 'Be Back Soon.' ..."

Read the rest of "Little Herons."

Short Story: "The Difference Between Claws and Walking Legs"

"At holiday parties, a friend of mine would always talk about how great it was working in the National Park Service. He was 6 feet 2 inches, 200 pounds, and wore corrective shoes because his legs were hyper-muscular. He was a ranger stationed in Maine. Is that the right word, 'stationed'? Christ, it’s not combat, but he stayed there for years, holding it down. Stationed. One year, I finally latched on to his talk. I said, 'I’m coming up there to see you. In Maine.' So I did. I dropped out of college, too, because I didn’t want to feel hurried to get back for anything.

"I drove several days to get to the park, and after I got there I just sat in my truck for a while and watched him. He sat in the entrance booth, handing out brochures to people in RVs. He was wearing the tan shirt and the evergreen pants of park servicemen. Servicewomen. Service people. I debated in my head where they all fell on the map of uniforms. I decided uniforms were a family tree that began with Tutankhamen’s headdress."

Read all 1,814 words of this lobster story.

Finisher

There's a man with white gloves who jogs west to east on the Broadway Bridge. I've seen him every morning, as I'm walking the other way. He wears a long-sleeve T-shirt: faded navy blue, cotton that's wet around the neck from his sweat. On the shirt it says, "Finisher.”

Presumably the man got the shirt at a marathon. He finished. "Hey, nice job! Here's a shirt with our logo on it."

"Finisher" in soccer has clout. It means the guy who can come in and bang out a goal. He's the man. Same in baseball, the "finisher" is the stud out of the bullpen that comes in to strike out the side in the bottom of the ninth with two on, no out.

In tailoring, the finisher fells the lining, stitches the buttonholes, and tidies the edges of the garment. In "finish" carpentry, the doors get hung, as well as tacking on the moldings, railings and shelves.

Short Story: "The Bees"

This is how I imagine the next ten years will sound:

“Bees. It’s how flowers fuck.”

“Why I never!”

These two sentiments will be repeated over and over, around and around in various forms, until the dispute ultimately comes to a head, to be settled by one colossal push-up contest for rightful ownership of the RV in question.

I think it will.

Read “The Bees.”

Ramona

Ramona Pieters hopped into her shoes. She stepped into the sun. As a kind of looping song, she serenaded herself that she would have it differently one day. Love would sound like heartbeats, marching. The ground would be level and wide. The giddy league of taste would have its revenge. And the line would form behind her.