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He shows his hands as bidden. Across each palm, and flecking the edges also of his bare soles, doily patterns of lesion and wart, the arsenic array. His hands outstretched toward the inspector, palms up, thumbs east and west, Read the rest of this entry »

They were torches to our matchsticks. They ate our city’s oxygen and everything else on the menu. In the early days of the occupation, we caught rare glimpses of them at the opera, the better cafes, at the racetrack calculating odds. Read the rest of this entry »

His mother never wanted him, but at his most notorious he was the second (and the eighth) most wanted man (also the eleventh, but beyond the tenth, he couldn’t be bothered) in the state where he lay hiding, parenthetical, practically invisible. Read the rest of this entry »

My stupid sister says she wants to be a Sudanese baby in Darfur. Mommy says when we find her, she’ll wish she was a motherless African orphan. It’s just emotion talking; I’m just emotional too. Read the rest of this entry »

The brain has a fuse. After years of threat and terror, the fuse blows, leaving a scar behind, a charred little plug of matter, once animated tissue. It can make a person mean. Read the rest of this entry »

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299-WORD NOVELS

Character, conflict, emotional impact. And sentences! Everything you want in a novel, without one extra syllable.

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The pen name David B Dale honors my parents Beatrice and Dale. David+B+Dale = davidbdale

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