Christopher Locke
Bio
Chris is a writer living in the Adirondacks. Latest travel book ORDINARY GODS (Salmon, Ireland, 2017), latest fiction 25 TRUMBULLS ROAD (Black Lawrence Press, 2020), latest collection of poetry MUSIC FOR GHOSTS (NYQ Books, 2021)
Stories (6/0)
A Long, Good Thanks
Finding a whole, fresh turkey in Mexico is like discovering a sale on veal cutlets down at the baby petting zoo; ain’t gonna happen. Yet during my first-ever, five hour Thanksgiving shopping spectacular at the local MegaMart in Guanajuato, Mexico, I did manage to find a smoked turkey frozen solid and dating back to sometime before the second Bush presidency.
By Christopher Locke3 years ago in Wander
Una Via
I didn’t believe it for a minute. I mean, come on; it was Cancun for God’s sake, a city as about as hazardous as a park bench. So as my family and I walked to a restaurant near the lagoon, I was convinced those “Danger: Crocodile Zone” signs we kept seeing had to be some kind of wink-wink photo op for dumb tourists already juiced on a bucket of Coronas and a week’s worth of sunshine. And I totally got the joke: smiling and half-cocked, some moron would hug the sign while an equally be-slathered gringo snapped off a couple shots to email back home to relatives in Minnesota still shoveling out their coal bins. They’re nuts, they’d say between stamping their feet and blowing into their hands to stay warm. And then they’d smile; jealous.
By Christopher Locke3 years ago in Wander
Unforgivable
The richest members of our church owned a racetrack up in New Hampshire, and as a favor to my father one summer they hired my brother Brian and me to help sell programs. I was 11-years-old and Brian 12. And as we schlepped the glossy magazines back and forth in front of bleachers teeming with be-leathered motorcycle enthusiasts, rednecks, and drunken ZZ Top look-alikes, I realized I had never been so scared in all my life.
By Christopher Locke3 years ago in Families
Call My Name
As a kid, I never went camping. Sure, there were one or two backyard sleepovers with other boys in my church, and I’d once spent an unfortunate evening with my father and Brian in a neighbor’s leaky cabin—my dad had been fighting with my mom again and sold the overnighter to us as a “bushwhacking adventure.” But really, the closest I’d ever come to truly roughing it was watching Woody Woodpecker torment lumberjacks on my black and white television.
By Christopher Locke3 years ago in Families
The Lost
The Lost Lisa smiled as she handed her credit card to the owner of a well-appointed hotel in Guatemala City. All I could think about was clean sheets, a heated pool, room service. After six months of rustic travel, Lisa and I wanted our last night to be a hedonistic free-for-all.
By Christopher Locke3 years ago in Wander
