M. Michael TRARP
Bio
Citizen of the Universe, Rock & Roll Poet
Stories (16/0)
Knife Skills
“So, the butcher comes home from his first day of work. His wife asks him, ‘How’s the new job?’ He says, ‘Offal’” The junior detective walked around the living room of the apartment, casually lifting the edges of things up with a chewed-on pencil.
By M. Michael TRARP3 years ago in Fiction
Finding the Dessert Fork
I was enjoying my lunch at the counter. It was a typical greasy spoon. A long counter started near the entry door, capped by a cash register, and extended along the length of the diner with a series of red-cushioned stools bolted to the floor spaced out beneath it. Opposite the counter was a line of Formica-topped tables with red booth seating beneath the wall-to-wall windows.
By M. Michael TRARP3 years ago in Fiction
The Old Barn
Barnard breathed in the microbe. He had been waving a crostini topped with salty, black caviar and a dab of sour cream under his bulbous nose when the particle danced from the briny roe, riding the swift inhalation current into the spacious nostril. It struggled to free itself from the morass of prickly hairs gently waving back and forth with Barnard’s steady breathing. After wresting itself from this hirsute mess, it made its way to the back of the throat, slightly below and facing the septum, where it clung, allowing the virus inside it to begin attacking cells and multiplying.
By M. Michael TRARP3 years ago in Fiction
A Heart-Shaped Leather Box, Tied Together with Frayed Shoelaces
He did that thing with his hands. He extended his thumbs, curled his fingers, and brought his hands together, just in front of his Adam’s apple, in the shape of a heart. And locked their positions. He tilted his head, coyly, cigarette dangling from his lips, dropping his chin too low so that the cherry brushed the knuckles of his left hand. His lips contorted into a ghastly smile as he tried to move the cigarette away from his hands. He broke the heart by shaking his left hand erratically, then rubbing the top of his hand on the back of his thigh.
By M. Michael TRARP3 years ago in Fiction
