Dear Forest,
Take me, this day. Be it thorn or splinter, poison leaf or needle, or by way that does not make a sound.
May we dance with broken limbs, bleed with rotting hearts, and burn with contagious crowns of fire.
Let’s be the wind upon our last falling bough.
Dan was covered in pollen when he wrote this story.
I hear your laugh when I walk in. The voice in my head likes to play tricks.
Our song is playing. Sometimes, I can hear both when I’m alone.
Other times, there are only stolen grace notes.
The song ends, and I hear you again.
But you aren’t laughing alone.
Dan enjoys the art and science of writing 50-word stories.
Our eyes met, and it felt like my first day on Earth. We studied each other from across the lab, your knowing grin bending spacetime. Somewhere across the galaxy, a star imploded while sweat trickled down my neck. I diverted my gaze to avoid staring, but you were still looking.
Dan lives with his wife in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. He wrote this one for her.
An oil executive lectured at a geology seminar and gifted each student a novelty cup. His speech proclaimed that hydrocarbons were a more valuable resource than water, and that those who object could find a free drinking fountain right outside. Before he finished, the entire audience had turned to plastic.
Dan lives with his wife in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. He finds fulfillment in writing stories both short and long.
The banana pudding – exquisite. And then the bacon stir-fry.
Five plates worth.
The jumbo coconut shrimp, do you want some?
Only one egg per customer!
The dessert is just a palate cleanser, and then one more plate like my first.
Didn’t like the ice cream selection I saw. Very small.
Dan writes fiction when he isn’t writing confidential technical reports (until the State deems them as public knowledge).