David Staring
Bull Publishing
Some people hated themselves when they saw David. He would look at them, clearly hoping for some recognition, hoping they’d see him for what he used to be. David didn’t want to be crazy. It was a situation of multifaceted social politics and therefore wasn’t anyone’s fault. Of course, they’d always reply with the cold shoulder, eyes that darted furtively in various directions.....
Take Her To Heaven
Bull Publishing
You’d best not soak in your own wrongdoings, or else you’ll be a mad little sponge. The sponge of the self is the soul, the cherry on top of the mind. The mind’s the real bugger, showing you the world for what it really is, in all its glory and all its bleakness. I’m picturing an alleyway, real inky and whatnot. The alley is the complex, anguished mind of me. It’s a straight shot, about twenty feet. At the end of it, there’s this chick, and my God is she beautiful. You know, crimson hair that curls in all the right places and this bright red lipstick that’ll just send you on your way with happy thoughts in your heart. The chick says, “This is how I used to look, and I hope it’s how I look when I go to heaven.” I can’t blame her. Who wouldn’t want to look like that in heaven? I imagine she says this because she got older and wrinkled and not nearly so shiny. Sure, I’ll let her look however she wants to look.
When I speak of murder, I best not be thinking of sending anyone to anywhere other than the land of clouds in the sky. There’s a nice place called heaven where you stop agonizing and sweating all the time. I appreciate it. Confident fellows like to tell you it’s not there, in the sky, but maybe it just isn’t there all the time. In fact, it’s quite possible that every time they’ve gone up into the sky and checked, heaven up and ran away.....
The Metro Sonnet
Bristol Noir 7/5/2026
“STOP REQUESTED. PLEASE USE REAR EXIT.”
On a number 4 Los Angeles Metro bus I sit, a sad sack on a battered seat at the back of the bus. Today is nice. The sun is shining and it’s a Saturday. Best of all, there are only a handful of passengers. This means fewer stops, more open space, and a general elevation in the quality of my Hollywood-centric voyage down Santa Monica Boulevard.
The bus’s seats are covered in a haphazard arrangement of yellow polka dots. It’s an artsy touch I quite like. Good on whoever’s choice that was. The side windows are plastered on the outside with an advertisement for a superhero movie, and the back wall is consumed by a large air conditioner. Every Metro bus seems to have an odd-shaped stain on the floor at its midsection and a handful of graffiti tags on its metal hand bars. This one is no exception. At the front, just past the retractable seats that also serve as parking spots for wheelchairs, a balding driver sits silently behind a layer of bullet-proof glass. At least, I think it’s bullet-proof.
The bad feelings have settled in; the anger, the boredom. I can’t really put my finger on where they began but they’re coming in full swing. Now I’m stuck to this seat. I can’t move. I can’t go anywhere.....