Published by Burrow Press, Feb. 16, 2011
Paperback, 119 pages w/ black & white photos
ISBN: 978-0-578-07746-8

Fragmentation + other stories is a short story anthology of Florida authors which contains at least one structure fire, an instance of fellatio behind a Season’s 52, five types of existential ennui, and three characters with really dirty mouths (a first-year teacher, a romantic with Tourette’s, and an ice cream man).

PREVIEW

For a long time, the first words from my mouth were “skullfucker.” I was powerless to start sentences otherwise.

My mother would say, “Where’s the milk we bought at the store? I don’t see it in the truck.”

“Skullfucker fucking took that milk mom.”

We tried soap. We tried long talks, but the long talks left  mom splotchy, and me sodden with guilt.

A pastor came to us.

I said, “Skullfucker Jesus,” as calm as pass the sugar.

The pastor said, “Jesus forgives those who ask forgiveness. Let’s pray.”

But I did not pray. I said, “Skullfucker don’t ask for shit!”

Doctors ruled out demonic possession, but ran from the house nonetheless shamed.

I repeated grades in school.

People pointed.

Grandmother turned her narrow back to me and later died.

On the first day of each month, I said, “Skullfucker skullfucker. Rabbit rabbit.” For luck, just in case.

I began to dream of a cure, or a woman like me. Together we’d overcome our deficiencies. I imagined our romance. We’d meet somewhere dark with dark curtains, dust motes and
candles. Clove cigarettes. Cherub-headed taps.

I’d say, “Skullfucker how are you?”

She’d say, “Skullfucker I’m great.”

For a moment we’d sit suspiciously silent. Is she fucking with me?

“Skullfucker where are you from?” I’d ask after a while.

“Skullfucker Des Moines, Washington. Where are you from?”

“Skullfucker Nebraska, but I left that shit hole and fuck me if I ever go back.”

“Skullfucker totally,” she’d say.

We’d order oyster shooters and happy-hour well gin, and the bartender would eject us for language. Back to my place for talk and drinks, and movies and cuddling, and uncoordinated first-time sex. Quiet days of divine understanding would give way to one lambent moment where she’d look at me and I’d look at her. Together, like a flock of geese, we’d say, “Skullfucker I love you,” and move on to the bold things we couldn’t yet imagine.