Libations from
the Liminal
Lunch Box Surprises
I launched my writing career in third grade. My first work was fictional, complete with captivating setting, lively characters, colorful illustrations, and at least one major plot point. My mother carefully typed the story, a couple of sentences per illustrated page. My first published work. My first byline. “The Lunch Box Surprise” by Sandy K. Schwartz.
In the Sprawling Decline of the Stretch Motel
A wad of chewing tobacco bulges behind Francine’s bottom lip as she presses a Gideon into my palm and says, “You know, Jimmy, you’re gonna die someday.”
I look down at the little green book, vinyl-bound with fake gold letters. We put ’em in every nightstand, along with a dogeared coupon for Angelino’s Pizza and a color postcard for the Klassy Gents Klub. The Stretch Motel is all about options.
Banging Your Heart Against Some Mad Bugger’s Wall
I spent a lot of the seventeenth year of my life analyzing the lyrics of “The Wall” with my dear friend Herman. My children like to point out that I’m probably amongst the .001% of Pink Floyd devotees whose relationship with the band is non-cannabinical, and, though my reflections might have been more profound if I’d partaken of the sacred herb, it’s hard to imagine that I am not also amongst the .001% of devotees who mined that double cassette like it was the Old and New Testament.