Marsh Harbor and The New World



“Marsh Harbor will take you in his runabout, sir.”

The skinny boy looked no more than twelve, and made younger by the eagerness of expression.

“I don’t want to be a bother,” I said.

“I am an excellent driver, sir,” said the boy. “The best on the Cay.”

The car was a right-hand drive Austin Moke of considerable antiquity. I wedged myself into the passenger seat. The boy gunned it, spraying a fantail of sand behind us.

“Your name is Marsh Harbor?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.  “Like the town?”

“I was named after it, sir. You are from Miami?”

“No. I’ve been there, though”

He grinned. “All my life, I have longed to go to Miami.  I have never left Green Turtle Cay.”

“Not even to Nassau?”

“No sir. My grandmother forbids it. She says Nassau is a place of sin.”

“But not Miami.”

“No sir. Miami is the New World.”


What Pegman Saw: Bahamas


Canvas Tool Kit




my grandfather

rode up on his motorcycle

and tossed me a wrapped canvas toolkit

in my dream. Greasy wrenches

screwdrivers so old  the walnut handles

looked like rocks.


He knew I was in trouble

had been a long time

all my old friends

had turned against  me

for reasons of their own

and I had never

felt so alone


In this dream his motorcycle

was the one from the picture

of him in the first war

puttees and riding pants,

the machine more like

a motorized bicycle except

for rails to strap things on,

blankets and guns.


My grandfather died when I was eight

half his brain removed from cancer

one dead eye looking out opposite his caved-in skull

half his thick white hair shaved away

the last time I saw him


In my dream he was young again

winking at me from his motorcycle 

he flicked his wrist too fast to see.

The canvas toolkit flew toward me from the blur of his hand.


I woke up before I could unwrap it,

 tried to remember

what he’d said

tried to remember the tools,

how he had arranged them,

what they were for


The Daily Post: Story

Only Questions



“Oh dear,” she said as she peered into the garden. “There seem to be more of them.”

He joined her at the window. “Hell and death. When the devil did he do that?”

Her cup ratted against the china saucer. She steadied it with her free hand. “I don’t know. Perhaps he goes and builds them at night.”

“In the dark?”

She shrugged.

“I  do wish you would reconsider my suggestion.”

“To call the mad doctor? For the Earl? Never in life. Think of scandal.”

“I can’t think of anything except those damned cairns. Where does he find the stones?”


Friday Fictioneers

The Children Called Him


clinton road

He was a regular, driving in from Hardyston for a Saturday haircut once a month.

I remember him coming into the shop that first day. I got a good look at him while I cut his hair. His expression was strange. Haunted, I’d call it. Something about his eyes.

He said it was a shortcut, but one look at a map showed me that was bullshit. Clinton road went from nowhere to nowhere. No, he drove it for one reason.

I got out of him, eventually. Children like wraiths, standing by the side of the road in rain or snow or sunshine. They said nothing, but he said he knew what they wanted.

At first he tried to resist, tried and tried to not go. But in the end, he had to take that drive again. Late at night. Alone.

Sheriff found his car with wallet and keys locked inside.

What Pegman Saw

My daughter Ethel is especially fond of this road, insisting on driving it whenever I go back to New Jersey to visit her (and sometimes backing out at the last minute).

One of her favorite places is the abandoned zoo Jungle Habitat, a cursed place if there ever was one.

The wilderness of New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut has a peculiar creepiness that you need to experience to fully understand.

The ghost stories of Washington Irving become much more believable.

The hills are alive with ghosts.





boxing gym.jpg

“You too, Joey?”

“I got nothing against them personally, Jack. I just don’t want to box with them.”

“So that’s it, then? You’re quitting?”

“No. Maybe go to Lopez’s.”

“You boys don’t have a problem with the Spanish, then.” The old man sat back in his chair, the old wood creaking with the weight. Joey could see the ghost of a fighter’s body beneath the thin shirt, the hard-won biceps and pectorals.  “I’ll need my speed gloves back. And the shoes.”

The boy stood looking at the ground.

“Anything else?”

“Just that it wasn’t my idea, Jack.”

“I know, kid.”


Friday Fictioneers


Summer, 1914


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“Ah! There you are my boy!” The old gentleman smiles up from his table. “I hoped I would see you today.”

“Sir,” I reply. “How do you do this evening?”

“Splendid!” He claps his hands, gestures to the chair. “Won’t you join me for a glass of Sillery? It goes down well after such a hot afternoon.”

I  see no way out of it. He pours the sparkling yellow wine into a tall glass. “So tell me, young man. Are you a political animal?”


“Do you hold opinions? A philosophy? Something about you that is more durable than your excellent manners and obvious wealth?”

His cold blue eyes pierce me. I realize now that he must know, must have seen us together. We have been careless. We cannot help ourselves. Her recklessness is an aphrodisiac for us both.

He expects an answer. A correct one.

I clear my throat.

What Pegman Saw


“IF I TRY TO FIND some useful phrase to sum up the time of my childhood and youth before the First World War, I hope I can put it most succinctly by calling it the Golden Age of Security.”
― Stefan ZweigThe World of Yesterday: Memoirs of a European

The European summer of 1914 was marked by especially fine weather, day upon day of glorious sunshine and warm afternoons. The spas of Bohemia were a favorite destination for the noble and wealthy.

By winter, the world left behind its innocence as the Great War began, killing or wounding a quarter million young men in a matter of weeks. Soon enough, Bohemia itself would cease to exist.


A Family of Three Now



My wife brought in the stack of Christmas cards to sign.  I shook my head.

“It’s not even Thanksgiving yet.”

She smiled. “I like to get a jump on things.”

I almost said probably addressed them in January, but I caught myself in time.

I thanked her and went to my study. I opened the first card. It was to the Thomasons. Their daughter was Wendy’s best friend since kindergarten. Our families had spent summer vacations together once.

There was the photo.  We’d taken it a month or so after the funeral.

Molly, me, Teddy. A family of three now.

Friday Fictioneers



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Poke leaned hard in the saddle. I could see his face was chalk-white underneath the beard and sunburn.

“You don’t look so good, pard,” I said.

“Don’t feel so good, neither. That goddamn bitch with the scattergun.”

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you. You had plenty of time to shoot her.”

Poke looked annoyed, as he always did when I pointed out his errors. “Didn’t want to shoot no woman, Cal.”

“But shoot her you did.”

“Only after she shot me.”

“She’s dead all the same, but now you’re gut-shot in the bargain.”

He grimaced. “I got my principles, Cal.”

We rode on for a while, him sighing now and again. I trotted up beside him and pulled open his coat. “Goddamn, Poke. You’re bleeding like a pig. Let’s stop so I can get a look at that.”

“Not yet. We need to put some distance between us and them.”

What Pegman Saw: Colorado

Spun Sugar


Your good mood

will you mind

if it doesn’t last forever?

When you get laughing

you must know


it all has to end sometime


spun sugar stays fluffy only

as long as it stays dry

but sooner or later

you find out

it’s a rainy climate


The Daily Post

Keeping Appearances


“Am I waking you up?”

“I had to get up anyway, Dad. The phone was ringing.”

“Ha. Listen, I need you to do something for me.”

“Name it.”

“I need you to come over and shovel the walk.”


“Yes, now. Before your mother wakes up.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“I know what time it is. I need you to do it. If your mother wakes up and sees I haven’t done it, she’ll think all kind of things.”


“The doctor said I can’t shovel. Something about the bones.”

“You’re going to have to tell her.”

“Not yet.”


Friday Fictioneers