Least Read Fictional Prose

People throw things away quickly.

If your hands are physical, your smartphone is also a thing.
It's easy to say things, but things also have a god.

Midnight at the Voodoo Lounge  
      
When fall comes, it feels the time to make a cool change. Rowena’s ladder out of this tar pit is to get a bartending license. So instead of rolling joints at the medical marijuana clinic, she juices her patrons up. Though the contact high from the weed is pleasant she feels it is time to come down from the high. Feeding this vice is much more to her taste.
At their apartment and before John’s very eyes, Rowena strips out of her lily-white as first communion dress into her black as Wicca lipstick on the eve of Samhain, lingerie. ...

His cutthroat razor gleamed ‘you raped and beat my mother, Johnson.’ Then he leapt, slashing. I sidestepped, kicking his groin.
The razor at his neck I asked, ‘how old are you?’
‘Twenty, bastard.’
‘I left Eileen Brady twenty-one years ago. My name's Johnstone.’
That’s how I first met my son.

Pythian Priestess

  On my first visit to the oracle of Gaia, my quest is for a spiritual guide to fill the role of earth- mother for me, a lyceum-age lad in need of guidance and discipline from a prophetess in the art of setting young men straight. My second chance to grow up comes under a capable Pythian Priestess well versed at divining the rods of young men. She is a strawberry-tressed priestess whose smoky mezzo timbre gives me a natural high and I instantly trust her.
    Amber invites me to join her religion of Delphic desire. Amber awakens me to my need for a touch of...