I took a young lady for a drive up Mount Washington to impress her with my romantic nature. Instead, I was a white knuckle wreck of a man as I crept up the mountain as slowly as I could, daunted by steep drops on either side of the car. I gritted my teeth and swore from base to summit. I wasn't thinking about whether we would plummet and die; I was hoping it would be quick and relatively painless. Honey may be the only story I've written inspired by sheer cowardice.

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2,626 words

“Fingerdance” is the tale of one man's love of late sleeping and his reaction to a powerfully catchy tune. I wrote it because I sleep like the dead myself. I occasionally wonder if I will rest so comfortably when that sleep is eternal or if some fool will come along and awaken me from the everlasting snooze.

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“Legend” is the story of a man driven to madness at the loss of his beloved. The very day he buries his wife, Mr. Dean fancies he hears her voice over the two-way radios the couple shared in happy times. But what is she saying? I wrote this story, I suppose, to externalize my own frustrations over the unbending nature of death, and the seeming unfairness of its hand.

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3,201 words