Dan Glover
Bio
I hope to share with you my stories on how words shape my life, how the metaphysical part of my existence connects me with everyone and everything, and the way the child inside me expresses the joy I feel.
Stories (36/0)
The Space Between
When the suffering of the world gets to be too much, I run away. I am a coward. I cannot face those necessary monsters head-on. Instead, I seek out the space between the desires that drive my life and the mystery that is the foundation of experience.
By Dan Glover2 years ago in Fiction
Doing Nothing
Years ago I ran a janitorial business. As a side-line, I advertised window cleaning services. Since I disliked cleaning windows I charged a premium price. If I did not get the job I was happy. If I did get the job it meant I would have a fatter wallet.
By Dan Glover2 years ago in Fiction
Loss
On the day my son was born he was so tiny and alive! I marveled at the softness of his skin, his tiny fingers and miniature toes, and the brightness of his eyes. He grew too quickly. I often wonder where all the time went for life is like a river flowing past that no one can keep their eyes trained upon it since it is always moving. It flows away to nowhere never to return.
By Dan Glover2 years ago in Fiction
Candy
If Florida is the Willy Johnson of America, Arkansas is the armpit. I’d found work, or you could say it found me, at the KOA campground on the outskirts of Fort Smith, a twenty acre ensemble carved out of a hollow made up of primitive sites, hookups for recreational vehicles, and even half a dozen cabins for rent by the day or by the week for the truly wealthy.
By Dan Glover2 years ago in Fiction
Stepping
It’s something to do with the way I want you. There’s got to be something wrong with that shit. I try to block you out. The thought. I swear I do. And alas, I always fucking fail. You’re so deep inside of me. I can’t get you out. There’ve been times when I start... digging.
By Dan Glover2 years ago in Fiction
Buying the Farm
The path ran out back of the house before disappearing down through the woods. It’d once been used as a logging trail though through years of disuse saplings had grown up in the middle of the dirt road making it all but impassable insofar as driving a vehicle through the valley.
By Dan Glover2 years ago in Fiction
Anathema
I am evicted. No, it is not as dire as that. As I make it sound. Yet that is how I feel. William, in his generosity, has decided that how, now that I am past my probationary period as an employee at Aliki Towers, I am eligible for a condominium of my own as part of my remuneration package. How I will no longer be sentenced to sleeping in that cold concrete cubicle deep beneath the ground.
By Dan Glover2 years ago in Fiction
A Taste of Pennies
The lightning leaves a taste of pennies in her mouth, an electric tingle in the air. Old Barney in his rumbling bed tosses and mumbles of departed beauties while his dentures secretly smile from the glass of water on the nightstand. Liv hugs a pillow in the dark wondering why it isn’t him coming to her tonight, that boy she remembers, and not this fat sour old man. She listens to the mutters coming from the other side of the mountain, hears every note, wondering.
By Dan Glover2 years ago in Fiction
Turtle
Viv shakes her head, perplexed, giving up on trying to remember, instead has another sip of warm watery bourbon left sitting beside her far too long, the tumbler as alone and forgotten as she feels. Allen’s mouthing words of something or other again, she doesn’t hear what, only notices his thin nearly translucent lips flapping, too much gum showing, that smile, like the grimace of a ferret, sharp white teeth, his brown truculent eyes flickering her way now and again, protectively territorial, then back to Darrel, the brothers standing together in a crowd of manly faces—a façade of whiskers, high foreheads, jouncing jowls—in the smoky liquor-crowded room.
By Dan Glover2 years ago in Fiction
Sometimes
He finds himself writing a letter which does not begin conventionally, no To Whom It May Concern, no Dear Monica. He hasn’t any idea of an address. Japan, maybe. Barcelona. San Juan. Writing this letter is like putting a note in a bottle and hoping it will reach you. Probably there are lots of bottles thrown into the sea, this one not being so different.
By Dan Glover2 years ago in Fiction