A journal of narrative writing.
The Jerusalem Moniker

This gangster of an olive tree had, at sunset, an old horse for a girlfriend—named Francine, spelled with 3 n’s... this, like peace itself, was permitted during, as I said, the period of the sun’s setting, one bright sabbath evening in January. Winter affections are nothing but impossible detail. There was just enough time for some small intrigue and scandal— Francine was with child and an olive tree was rumored to be the perturbed father. Actually, that old fart, Samuel Beckett knocked-up the poor horse in a cool dark shed in Palestine. That’s Palestine with 2 n’s. Don’t forget it. The authorities will question all of us in the smart set. The gum and lambskin prophylactic failed. I warned you— it‘s the details of winter that upset us.