Sully wrote...

The shrilled shriek from the third to last stair was always an anticipated sound for his nagging bones. Today, he couldn't see where to step to avoid the raised nail-heads that would sneakily grab his socks like a monkey's grip on a child who wandered to close to the cage at a zoo, because the cardboard box in his weary arms was obstructing his coke-bottled view. For three flights up he cradled the last of the discontinued Lafite like it was a priceless water color in a rainstorm. He finally made his way to the top, panting and hoping he could make it back down without going into shock just a few feet away from the orange juice on the rickety table that he should have finished before he started his climb. He set the box down on ledge beneath the windowsill and took a long look around. There it was before him; his grotto. Dresses and sweaters and blouses and coats. He inhaled deeply and his nostrils grew as big as a canyon. This room--a closet really--and the tannins poll

Sully wrote...

With the orange striped bobber surfing small ripples on the amber painted pond just below two pairs of dangling feet, the towheaded youngster held the cork handled pole in the hollows of his hands and squinted through the setting rays up towards the wrinkly face of the man sitting next to him on the pier.

"What was the gowaitest thing in your whife, Gwampy?" the chap calmly asked.

The old man humbly smiled, gingerly removed the floppy, lure-littered hat off his bald head with his thick, crooked fingers and delicately held it near his lap like he had just entered the doors of a church. The Korean War hero was slightly taken aback that a four year old, freckle-faced boy had the astuteness to start a conversation that didn't revolve around toys or firefighters and that he asked such a powerful question on top of it.

Looking around at the fading sun and the autumn's burnt leaves, the old man muddled his teeth around in his mouth and pondered the question

Sully wrote...

The lights dimming--dimmer now--until only a circular glow in the bulb frizzles on the fritz. This is a baby step for the man only called John by an enabler, his mother, his only friend. "Junior Mint" stood in front of a full-length, full-width mirror, facing himself. Those classmates were vicious little fuckers, but damn it were they honest and they had the hindsight to predicted this predicament so long ago. Childhood unforgotten, but placed on the back-burner for now--not to dare spoil this monumental moment. A moment as huge as his size and one he wanted never to forget. For years he neglected his own eye-contact, like a dog caught in the act of chewing his master's slippers. There he was now, boxed in, when he would've heaped over the edges if there were only more glass. He searched above the stretched-out collar of his ripped, mustard stained 5XL t-shirt and just below his jiggly, second chin. But his puffy fingers found no zipper. There would be no&nb

Sully wrote...

Somewhere in life he made a wrong turn and ended up in Shitville. The map he used was from a ruse called childhood and it led him astray like an abused pet that never looked back. He had a face that belonged on a missing persons poster, with the exception being that it no one took the time to print one. Dreadlocked-mullet, under-bite and bucked teeth; he never had a chance. It just wasn't in his DNA. 

Sully wrote...

The white linen captured the musky funk of the young couple's morning romp like a Ziplock bag sealed in freshness. With stiff, hotel pillows wedged in between loose flesh and the squeaky headboard, a petite hand immerged from the downy wonderland. The strawberry-blonde girl giggled, sat up and then pulled the sheet over her wild bed-head in a blissful swoop. If there were two holes cut in the fabric, she would've seen her ghostly reflection in the mirrior across the room and winked at it. Getting him to fall in love with her was tougher than a Wal-mart steak, but now, in all that's wrong with the infidelity; she felt so right.