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All but deaf to thunderstorms and smoke alarms, nothing seems to wake him, but the guttural rasps of our breathing and the rhythmic creaking of the box spring rouse him from his bed and lead him padding in his footsies to the primal scene. Read the rest of this entry »

It’s understood the truth can not be told. At best we see what passes by the peephole, a monocled distortion barely glimpsed through a fog of curved glass, apprehended but incommunicable. Read the rest of this entry »

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Behind the Pseudonym

The pen name davidbdale honors my mother Beatrice (Bea) and my father Dale

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