Dave's Fiction Warehouse

T oday I went to Publix, thinking I should do something to prepare for the approach of a Category 4 hurricane. But the only thing I bought of a hurricane nature was a case of bottled water. Publix had big pallets of it stationed around the store, and most people seemed to be grabbing at least one. I did too. If everybody had been grabbing big sacks of pomegranate, I probably would have done the same. We should all know it’s possible to fill up jugs with regular tap water and keep it for a few days, right? But when a hurricane’s coming you feel like you have to step up your game. Thus the bottled water. I also bought an overripe honeydew melon and some Cheerios and milk and a screamin’ BOGO deal on whole-bean coffee. I filled up the Prius and got $100 out of the ATM. And more wine, of course.  Bring it on, Dorian! Hurricane warnings are tough for me. I can never get in the proper mindset. The tracking forecast changes at least hourly, and it’s hard to maintain a true sense of urgenc...

M y morning walk was cooler than it’s been in awhile. Gray skies and the possibility of rain. Still humid as hell, but when you’re in Florida in late August, a dip into the mid 70s can put a spring in your step. They say those gray skies may portend a Labor Day hurricane, but I’ll go ahead and enjoy them for now. I saw an older black guy on a pedal bike stopped at the corner. He appeared to be rolling up his rain jacket. He had a boom box in the front basket, playing some cool ’70s soul number at mid volume. Sounded like Al Green. “Let’s Stay Together,” maybe. I liked it. Usually when people play their music in public, the music is very shitty and very loud. Way too much bass and the only lyrics you can make out have to do with motherfuckers. This tune was just right, fading pleasantly as he pedaled away down the empty street. The song was still in my head three miles later. If the guy had looked my way, I might have smiled or nodded or given him an inane thumbs-up. But you don’t want ...

I n another life, I would like to have been a detective. Not a regular detective who has to play by the rules and follow “the law” and kiss the asses of all the powers-that-be. No, thank you! I’m thinking of something more like a movie detective, the kind of guy whose boss gives him 48 hours to solve a sordid high-profile murder case and he solves it in like 47:59:59. Suck on it, boss! In such a scenario, I would carry a very distinctive firearm. Not a long-barreled Smith & Wesson .44 caliber Model 29 — that’s already been done . No, I would be even more old-school: maybe a Wogdon dueling pistol, recently popularized by the musical “Hamilton.” One shot, and if you throw away that shot, you are well and truly screwed. Much like Hamilton himself. If there were no Wogdon dueling pistols available, I would have to go with the Model 1892 Winchester Chuck Connors made so famous in “The Rifleman.”  Mark McCain: “Pa, you just killed eleven men! In like two seconds! Is that a Model 92 o...

W hen we first moved to this old neighborhood in Northeast Florida, I decided to hang an American flag out front. Not for patriotic reasons, really; it’s just that the previous owners had one, and this is a historic area where Old Glory on the front porch kind of fits the vibe. Florida’s heat and rain and humidity are hard on flags. I replaced mine for the first time a few years ago. This summer, I saw it was time to replace it again. Some of the stitching had come undone along the middle stripe, and flag hung in two, like a cavalry guidon after a long battle. Now there’s a metaphor. As before, I ordered another from Amazon. When it arrived I let it hang inside for awhile to get rid of the fold wrinkles. I meant to hang it back on the porch the next day. But that day, the president committed some new outrage, after a long summer of them — I forget what exactly; it is the nature of this presidency that you really can’t remember much past four or five outrages ago. I thought: “Actually, ...

T oo soon for Halloween? No way! Not when Costco and Walmart are already jam-packed with Christmas crap on October 1. I wanted to mention a podcast I’ve been enjoying in the run-up to All Hallow’s Eve: “ Spooked .” Every Thursday, the podcast features regular people talking about eerie stuff that has happened to them. You know, spectral visitors and phantom hitchhikers and an assortment of unexplained phenomena. Some of it is obvious bullshit, sure, but I do not discriminate. The best part of the show is host Glynn Washington setting the stage with strange occurences from his own childhood. I love this kind of thing. Yes, I’ll admit that a number of episodes seem suspiciously similar to well-known works of horror fiction. But somehow, hearing the stories narrated by ordinary people makes them more compelling. The episodes remind me of when I was a kid, sitting around listening to the adults in my family talk about eerie occurrences. I had an uncle who subscribed to Fate magazine . He k...