The Bubble Cannon
The ongoing micro-novels project. Subscribe for free on Substack.
The After Party
The oligarchangels gathered in the vestibule rang every apartment until someone buzzed them in. Our own doors we wouldn’t dare open to well dressed men grinning in the peephole, so they set up carousing in our lobby, night and day, masquerading as doormen, in smart, brocaded liveries, spiriting us under great umbrellas to taxis and the neighboring deli for morning hard rolls and coffee, accepting packages we had hitherto, not living in a doorman building, oh rustic reader, so long been wary to order—consumer electronics, controlled substances… (more)
The Finger
The ceiling falling, sudden, like a silk scarf, bought at the museum shop, Michelangelo’s sublime Sixteen Chapel ceiling drifting down to us, Adam extending a languid, effete hand, God’s finger outstretched, his muscled arm—excuse me, you’re right: it’s the Sistine, not the Sixteen Chapel, which nagging correction has understandably hindered us fully inhabiting the scene, which if I run back and set drifting again seems now a bit forced, artificial, and tugging with it new troubles—Sistine, certainly Sistine, but where does that get us?…(more)
Patent Application
Sensitive fingers didn’t predispose me to a career in beetles, or, if I may, cosmic entomology, but after palpating the earth, rounder, as it turned out, even than expected, the ridge of the Himalayas suggesting the slightest capacity for friendship, my disenchantment with geological phrenology led me, as if fated—along with the gift certificate from my wife’s family for the town’s premier injury lawyers—onto the track of bees, to which, sting by sting, I sought to cultivate my allergy, until I saw that I would never bring a proper suit against the tycoon whose airline pioneered filling one in ten seats at random, though always the middle, with a man-sized teddy bear…(more)