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Albino (part one)

I began writing Albino two million years ago. I had an editor then, who lived a few blocks away. We would meet for breakfast on Avenue A, quietly forking into home fries as we discussed the structure of the story - the economy of objects. A dollar bill was not just a dollar bill in this story, it was connected to thought and action, to music and transformation. This was the story that told me there was a whole book to dig into, mining for diamonds in the backwaters of America, turning over the ugliest rocks to better understand relationships between fathers and sons.

Last week, I stumbled across a call for submissions - not for a journal, but for a podcast where the work of new writers was read aloud. I thought back to a reading I had done of just the first few pages of Albino - a messy hero's journey,  a young man and a guitar, a man with loss and regret, a man that still had something to lose. That reading went well, enough that I felt a strange elation stepping off the stage i…

the forbidden zone


I cannot tell you, and you must not ask. There are words that cannot be said, even quietly. To be speak freely, so many still take this for granted. I do not.

There are vast expanses of life I cannot discuss anywhere. All too much like the forbidden zone in the original planet of the apes. Too many secrets are buried there, beneath the sand.

No hero will come on a dark horse, bucking convention, flaunting the warnings. because this is not a movie.


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