Corpus Callosum Press

Ed sure was proud of his woodpile. There she is, said Ed, pointing. That’s my woodpile. I gazed upon Ed’s woodpile. I whistled, the kind of whistle that starts off high and goes low. If my whistling impressed Ed, he didn’t show it. I took in the gnarly grandeur of Ed’s woodpile. It was a fine woodpile; I wasn’t afraid to admit as much. A tall and rugged woodpile. A proud woodpile. A noble woodpile. This was a woodpile that wasn’t ashamed to be exactly what it was: a gigantic fucking woodpile....

Steve was offered a camp counselor job at the Summer Camp for Mean Little Shits. The pay was decent. The camp was located just ten minutes from his apartment. Meals would be provided. Yet he hesitated before accepting. That’s an interesting offer, he said to the camp director over the phone. The offer won’t last forever, said the director. I’ll need a decision by the end of the day. Wow, that’s fast, said Steve. We have a fresh batch of mean little shits coming in on Friday, said the...

I’d seen the old fisherman around the wharf but never talked with him. Then one afternoon while sitting at the bar he began telling me about the time his trawler was taken down by a great and terrible sea monster. I watched his thin chapped lips move, observed the darting of his rheumy eyes. I felt lucky to be confided in. When someone who is grizzled and rheumy confides in you, it feels special, like you’ve been selected, even if the reasons for your selection are foggy. I wasn’t a fisherman...