Mooney-Evans Family

Category: writing

  • Memories of San Francisco

    The early Summer Sun is flashes on City Hall’s golden dome — a beacon for the West — as I step inside, moving along the long marble staircase, in the heart of our secular Vatican where we paid $75 to be married all those years ago. I pause next to the statue of Harvey Milk.…

  • Little Mouse

    Little mouse A hundred years of evolution have made you the colour of the platform. Does it help you see the point of the Tube? Sometimes, you see, I have doubts. ****** I found this poem stuck into the pages of a book I left at the pub’s new lending library. Good thing I checked,…

  • The Continuing Adventures of a Newly-Minted Literary Snob (AKA Writing is Hard)

    I was out for a concert yesterday with a friend. He’s working up to self-publishing a book, and I’m excited for him. But I think that didn’t come through in the conversation, because I’m (apparently) a literary snob. You could see how that might mask my excitement. Trying to be a fairly open-minded fellow, I…

  • The Fishmonger of Pike Street Overpass

    It’s an unseasonably hot afternoon in Seattle. She’s leaning on the railing of the Pike Street overpass, psychedelic gypsy skirt, black tank top, Audrey Hepburn sunglasses. Her hair is a long, brunette ponytail. She has a partially-completed tattoo sleeve on her left shoulder. It was started a long time ago. The cars stream down the…

  • Like school days

    I’m reading Faulkner when she comes in. She sits on the bed, close enough that I can feel her. ‘What’s going on?’ She sounds just like she did when we were in university. A little more sober, maybe, but otherwise pitch-perfect. ‘Trying to read. Not successfully.’ ‘Go ahead and ask. I know you’re dying to…