Historical Fiction

I was shocked if not surprised at the death of Mahoney. I learned about it last week. The last time I saw him, he didn't look good although he was always too closely resembling (in his own words) either a "young Peter Lorre or an old Orson Welles". One thing he had was a hand that was perfect for holding a glass of beer no matter what size. We used to drink together when we were young and have the most confounding of conversations which always made sense to us but were threatening/infuriating/hilarious to others. I dug his massive vocabulary and he dug mine. We didn't get a chance to use them as much as we would have liked, so when we got together, we jazzed it up. We often talked of baked otters and black out shades and redundant ethnic quips. I've been trying for the last couple of days to write something about Mahoney when I came to inspiration point and tried to imagine the kind of conversation/ observation/dissertationwe would have shared on the available topic had we had another chance to kick it around and chop it up. I'm gonna name this "piece" Mahoney's Office after him and bid my bud adieu.

The devilish labyrinth that Daedalus devised.

“She turned upon him, took him by the hair. Spun him 'roundabout, she pushed him out, Laughing as he feel about Sat down for a drink in her father's...

Revolution. That word feels like venom in my mouth but it was stuck on the tip of my tongue all night as I dreamed of my life and my death with...