Hemingway wrote a Ballantine Ale ad in 1951, saying he kept bottles “in the bait box with chunks of ice” and that “you ought to taste it on a hot day when you have worked a big marlin fast because there were sharks after him.” Papa sure could toot his own horn for a payday.Read more "New Fiction: Before the Funeral | The Gambler Magazine"
I thought, O Holy Mary Mother of God.
I thought, I’ll never be a Yale man now.
“Is this Joan?”
“No. I work for Ms. Earle. I’m one of Joan’s lawyers.”Read more "New Fiction: Disrupter | Visual Verse"
He moved from Shearson to Goldman to Bear Sterns in five handshakes.Read more "New Fiction: Chad Works at the IMF Now | Pidgeonholes"
Even while our mom and aunts and great aunts shouted over canasta tiles and laughed loud and warmly as they hunted maraschino cherries in their holiday whisky sours, and our dad and uncles and grand uncles clustered in the kitchen playing poker and drinking happy Pabst from glasses with droll cartoons on them, my sister and I stayed hunkered down in the little village.Read more "New Fiction: Cotton | Gravel Magazine"