My dad was difficult. I can't say we ever had a great relationship, but not for lack of trying. We saw in each other the parts of ourselves we didn't like - or just didn't know how to handle. Contrary to popular myth, dad wasn't a saint. He could be a sonofabitch. His own mother, who loved him dearly, would tell you the same thing. She often just didn't understand him. Sure, he saved a lot of people's lives, and kept many more going well past their sell-by date - but he wasn't a saint. Really, none of us are. My dad was short-tempered. He could be violent. He was a typical only child and product of his time. He grew up in a very working-class household and strived for what he considered a better life. How that translated to moving to Steubenville, OH I'll never understand. Actually, I do - but that's a conversation for a different time. As it's Father's Day, allow me to focus on dad's good side. He could never be accused of not being ha...
I told myself I wouldn't do this. I didn't want to share any part of the new book yet. But - I'm enjoying it too much, and that feels selfish. Lord knows I don't write for any reason other than to share stories, so I edited a few bits down to this little excerpt. You might like it. Might not. Might think WTF?! Might ignore it all together. No matter what you think, or if you even read it at all, I'm enjoying writing it. Those who know me won't be surprised. Yet. - MCM 6/20/26 Mid-afternoon sun spilled through a dirty window, cutting across the living room in long golden beams. Dust drifted lazily through the light. Teddy the cockroach made his way up a dusty work boot. The boot had been there longer than anyone could remember. So had the body beside it. The humans who once occupied the old house were long gone. Their furniture remained. Their toys remained. Their guns remained. Even some of the humans themselves remained, though mostly as bones and geography. T...