Old Man Scanlon’s
Old Man Scanlon’s

Letters from the Village

“Chopped Liver” will appear in Jewish Literary Journal in March 2015.

“Benched” will appear in Apocrypha and Abstractions in August 2015.

“Route 44” and “Vulture Love” will appear in Foliate Oaks Literary Magazine in February 2015.


19 February 2015
Decades ago, so desperately did I desire to be immortal, I would fantasize about joining the undead. Endowed with the supernatural powers of the best-selling fictional vampire… [more]
02 January 2015
During our drive to Hull Cheryl spots six hawks on the interstate in quick succession, perched in low trees in the median. Even without inspecting their entrails this… [more]
06 October 2014
Apparent train-kill, a sparrow lies contorted on the commuter rail platform, only nominally three-dimensional, his days of scavenging fast-food french fries over and done. The soaring… [more]
09 August 2014
Opportunistic stray dragonflies, sometimes nibbling on a hapless bluebottle, alight on me with a rustle while I read and contemplate in my driveway beach chair, resisting… [more]
29 May 2014
Cheryl and I are dreading these last few yards—so easy to know the right thing, so hard to do it. We’re here to pay our respects to an aged friend. We’d had word… [more]
19 April 2014
My job for the last two Passovers has been to make the chopped liver. I had never tasted it, indeed had no acquaintance whatsoever with it except in its rhetorical… [more]
22 January 2014
There are words as good as forgotten through disuse and resurrected by chance, words acquired in my fishing days when I had scarcely attained… [more]
23 December 2013
Perusing online submission guidelines, I notice that in plain sight among the calls for fiction and poetry are calls for recipes. I notice, I say, but have given little thought to why we write about food. Maybe it’s just another excuse… [more]
12 August 2013
Movies allow us to perceive discrete static slices of time as a continuous flow, an artifice in which our brain conspires. Slow motion, ubiquitous in sports television, expands… [more]
31 July 2013
An organ pipe mud dauber is building a nest in the ornamental tin-roofed wren house Cheryl hung by the door. I hear her stridulating at her masonry work, and see… [more]
10 June 2013
Pencil to paper, my grandson copies theorems out of the text-book, the better to cement them into his mind and make them his own. He’s studying for his geometry… [more]
29 May 2013
For love and duty Gram and I went to our twin granddaughters’ final middle school chorus performance. Unlike the interminable ordeal of a dance recital… [more]
21 April 2013
No longer having the excuse of a decrepit dysfunctional aortic valve—I have thus far been unable to exceed modern medical technology’s ability to fix me—I recently rode my bicycle for the first time in two years… [more]
27 February 2013
I never expected to prove my doctors fallible, but I decisively surpassed my prognosis of death by age forty. And as if death could not happen… [more]
16 January 2013
More night-owl than early bird, I have little desire to deepen my casual acquaintance with rosy-fingered dawn. Well after sunrise my morning is supposed to be a time… [more]
28 December 2012
As a new year impends and winter claws its way up its freshly secured beachhead, I could easily do worse than slither into a ratty sweater of a color not found in nature, finish off… [more]
01 December 2012
I was intrigued to find, during some basic genealogical research, that my grandchildren are one-sixteenth Portuguese, and are therefore adequately “ethnic.” In this… [more]
01 December 2012
A haircut, at least after successfully completing the standard long-haired rebellion against materialist bourgeois conformity, can be one of life’s… [more]
14 November 2012
On their first bikes without training wheels, my twin granddaughters raced each other down the street, shouting, pedaling like maniacs… [more]
01 October 2012
The year is 1972, and we’ve pretty much sewn up second place in the Southeast Asia War Games. I’m about to receive my math degree, and with it, relief and a quandary. For four years I’ve been parrying… [more]
12 September 2012
As a nerd I lead, appropriately enough, a binary existence: oblivious to my environment, or gawking freely and unreservedly to provide a never-ending stream… [more]
24 July 2012
Cheryl, to the amusement of our friends, loves to start bemoaning the end of summer as soon as the days first perceptibly begin to shorten, long before Labor Day. This year… [more]
02 June 2012
Just as it was becoming widely fashionable to despise America and flaunt one’s tolerance of Commies, my friend Cav and I engaged in behind-the-scenes operations… [more]
03 May 2012
Some days just can’t be bothered to deal me an idyll with my grandchildren. On the other hand, seldom can I… [more]
27 February 2015
This year my grandson turns eighteen, my granddaughters turn sixteen, and today I turn sixty-five. At the corner pizzeria a lunch of kale soup and cabernet; I won’t mention the fried banana rings. This evening Cheryl and I gorge on Nebraska—twice now—understated, masterfully paced, cast, and acted. A quarter century ago I hadn’t the wit to conceive of gifts like these, let alone of living long enough to receive them.
Boxing Day
26 December 2014
Gram and I, our grandchildren, and their mother lunch on Christmas leftovers followed by Godiva chocolates. We open one final round of gifts. Gram and grandson go for a walk. Mom takes one girl to practice driving in a deserted parking lot. Her twin sister dozes on the couch while I polish off food scraps and coffee. The boy dresses for work; I knot his tie. Temporal. Quotidian. Mundane. Moments that bring me joy.
Back Bay
14 December 2014
I memorize maps, and can freely indulge getting lost only when I’m not responsible for anyone else. I feel in my bones why my granddaughters are worrying about getting off the train at the right stop on their first solo trip to Boston. I badly want to escort them, but I know it’s purely selfish. They must do it by themselves; I hope and fear they will. I don’t even trust myself to go to the station to see them off.
Thanksgiving, Early
25 November 2014
Warm November rain. Slow drive into Boston with “The Professor and the Madman” on tape. The doctor’s news isn’t dire. Handsome addition to my hydrant collection. Aged uncle is in fine fettle. Dinner with friends, a full evening of conversation accompanied by a surprising New York cabernet. A winter moth flurry and my first sight of Orion and the Pleiades in a dog’s age: no cataracts. Screw “It’s a good day to die.”
17 November 2014
If I forgo wanting to be out in five minutes, the market never fails to amuse. I queue in the express lane, which instantly broadcasts a call for customer assistance. The register girl and her customer sound like they've been hitting the helium. Funny. Young mother lopes in from the rain, twisting her feet at each step so her sneakers squeak, smiling over her shoulder at her tag-along toddler. They laugh. I do too.
Eleventh Month
05 November 2014
No longer veiled, the woods have shed modesty and their gaudy leaves in a Halloween nor'easter, exposed trunks and limbs glassy black in the cold rain: dendritic dishabille. Freed from paralyzing cold by an unseasonable shirtsleeves day, the last katydid stridulates in a slow-motion croak. Then chaste oaks' muted brown lingerie; an occasional snow flurry. And a few dandelions hug the ground, promising another year.
26 September 2014
The city concrete curates an unremitting din: traffic, helicopters, horns, sirens, waspish mopeds, perpetual overload, no escape. At the plaza I strain yet fail to hear a sibilant bicycle tire and clicks of the ratcheting freewheel—drowned out. On the other hand, the canyons channel a changing wind. I absorb olfactory calories from pizza, tandoori, and Zagat-rated Thai one minute, ocean salt and low tide the next.
Waiting for Uncle Edward
02 July 2014
I’m tracking Ed on the Internet: left San Diego, arrived Providence, arrived Attleboro. USPS Priority Mail Express 1-Day, airfare $92.85, insured for $100. Last time home, he carried loosely wrapped tiramisu wedged between the shirts in his carry-on. This time, he won’t be bringing dessert. I’ll be here to sign for his ashes.

More shorts…


My Photographs

The Eyes of Old Man Scanlon



7x20 (Seven By Twenty)

The Adroit Journal

Apeiron Review

Apocrypha and Abstractions


Cleaver Magazine

Cuento Magazine


Feathered Flounder


Foliate Oak Literary Magazine

Front Porch Review

Hippocampus Magazine

Journal of Microliterature

land that I live

The Montucky Review


Philly Flash Inferno

Prick of the Spindle

Prime Number

Red Fez


Short, Fast, and Deadly

Sleet Magazine

Spry Literary Journal


Three Line Poetry

Vine Leaves Literary Journal


Journals, defunct after publishing (or accepting) my work


High Coup Journal


Caper Literary Journal

Tiny Lights

Barefoot Review

Camroc Press Review

Writers’ Bloc (Rutgers) (as of 27 May 2012 showing distinct signs of undeadness).

The Writer’s Eye Magazine

Barrier Islands Review

The Literary Burlesque

Magnolia’s Press

Sea Stories


Providence, RI: Cellar Stories Bookstore

Attleboro, MA: Ugly Dog Books

Falmouth, MA: Eight Cousins