Here's a short story of mine called "Accumulator" that was published today (April 16, 2022) in the publication Wordrunner eChapbook.https://echapbook.com/anthology/2022/accumulator.html?fbclid=IwAR3zQYjcNM9OTDOREAHXrEuLDGRseY9X-NdgeUOQU9XsnEoFOUcwQLVK3eU
A poem by Frank Diamond A poem of mine called "Anxiety Dreams" was published today (November 2, 2021) in a little literary magazine call "shuf Poetry." Here's the link. It is interactive: you have to press on the blue words (sometimes it's just 1 blue letter) to read it through. You know you've reached the … Continue reading Anxiety Dreams
a short-short story by Frank Diamond AUTHOR’S NOTE: This short-short story originally appeared in my short story collection Damage Control, which was published in 2005. Reynold’s Bubble Gum factory. It wouldn’t be so bad if me and Farley worked on an assembly line that turned out cars or air conditioners or refrigerators. You wouldn’t believe … Continue reading Farley
a short story by Frank Diamond A short story of mine called "Unremembered Acts" was published today (May 4, 2022) in a little literary magazine called Nzuri Journal of Coastline College. Here's a link to the story. And here's a link to the journal's website. And here it is below in WordPress, as well. “You … Continue reading Unremembered Acts
a short story by Frank Diamond As the taxi pulls away from the bus depot we almost hit a jogger. I mean, this close. I can smell the burning rubber while the car’s still rocking. And you know what? This guy stops, jabs his fist at us a few times and then runs on. “Fake,” … Continue reading Marty
A short story by Frank Diamond We were downing brews in Iffy’s when Julie mentioned that she would love me to kill her ex-husband. Of course, she didn’t say it just that way. “Take care of Donald for me, will you Cheryl?” she whispered. In the darkness, the bruises under her eyes could have been … Continue reading The Anointed
From Damage Control, a collection of short stories by Frank Diamond. Go ahead, I’ll talk while you’re eating lunch. We only get a half hour. This is your membership card. I’m supposed to tell you that dues will be deducted from your paycheck at the end of each month. We have a closed shop here. … Continue reading The Shop Steward
a poem by Frank Diamond http://www.thecharlescarter.com/writing/2017/02/22/progress/ published in The Charles Carter Literary Magazine in February 2017 (in audio format--click on green Progress link above)
a short-short story by Frank Diamond (appeared in a little literary magazine called 50 Give or Take https://us5.campaign-archive.com/?u=09e9431de1a89ec0d0e21d16e&id=e3a1175fa2&fbclid=IwAR1ZEZUX7DlQEL2EmzcqabNkEqz9ThfaapeWVf28mNRQ5C95USBkei2dcew
written and performed by Frank Diamond https://soundcloud.com/user-132915329/raise-your-glasses-2
Dad and big brother, Jason, got along well — great, in fact — except for those stupid occasional arguments that any two family members can have; the kind often forgotten before they’re forgiven.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This short story, “Therapy Dog,” was published July 11, 2021, in a little literary magazine called Sincerely Magazine. The magazine can be purchased here https://www.sincerelymagazine.com/volumenineserendipity. About 10 years ago, when my daughter Allison attended the University of Pittsburgh, she’d periodically call home with updates. Her college experience—you’d be surprised, astonished, and amazed to … Continue reading Therapy Dog
Outside the bay window
This gift to my late wife
Given to her by her sister
Years ago plopped in a hole
No bigger than a shovel scoop
Man, has that thing grown
Cardinals sometimes peck the branches
Pulling berries from icy weaves
And my late wife’s wonderment
Gentles me down corridors of dreams
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN THE PHILADELPHIA EVENING BULLETIN IN DECEMBER 2006. It is about 325 steps, depending upon the length of your stride, from the door of the tavern, to a wedge of hallowed ground at the corner of Flowers and Bellevue avenues. Here, in Langhorne Borough, rests the gravesite of approximately — by the local … Continue reading Unknown Winter Soldiers Not Forgotten
A Vietnam story The Vietnam War ended for the United States 25 years ago yesterday. As other wars have, it left a lasting mark on the country and the world. And on families. More than 58,000 American men and women died in Vietnam. One of them was Charles Diamond -- "Chick" to his family, "Doc" … Continue reading ‘God … said no’
When I get to the cemetery, I crunch through the ice-encrusted snow as wind rumbles over the expanse. I am not dressed for this. My fingers ache, and I keep blowing warmth into my cupped hands.
When my first wife died I withered and withdrew
And lonely did I scale the couloir of grief
Curling about myself like that indolent snake
Confronting that first wife with cancer’s last claim
Just an overgrown garden snake parked upon our drive
A brown arm’s-spread length of languid reptilian still
A critter I’d never seen before or since that meeting
Curled into a taunt that he hurled at my own girl
Coiling tighter in delight: “The hour’s come for you!”
She died soon after when the siege broke through
And I never really heard the music until its absence
Of delight in all creation—that’s how her voice fulfilled
So what torched despair’s fingers until the grip gave out?
One night in Harpoon Henry’s I kissed a pretty woman
A nice, friendly girl I’d been working with for years
Mouth-to-soul resuscitation seasoning bloodless sleep
That kiss—alone, apart, about. A prelude to nothing
Except the entirety of life. A kiss. That’s it.
Interceding like prayer to caulk my brokenness
Did I ever tell that girl what that kiss delivered?
I now forget (surprise!) how she wriggled off the hook
Can’t even recall the name, just drops of smiling eyes
I am deaf, now. Blind. Can’t bend to tie my shoe
A salty wind-whipped spray gentles this old wheeze
Lets me taste that kiss once more and that is what I’ll ride
You may release your servant, Lord. It is time for me to die.
Here’s a piece of mine that was published today called “Morning Run.” I wrote it as a short-short story but the publication is called Whimsical Poet so I guess it’s a poem. The link is to the digital edition and “Morning Run” starts on page 13. It’s a bit of a departure for me in … Continue reading Morning Run
by Frank Diamond Here’s a short story of mine called “The Recent Future” that was published in a little literary magazine called Liminoid in the spring of 2016. http://www.liminoidmagazine.com/the-recent-future And here’s my interview with the editors. http://www.liminoidmagazine.com/blog/2016/8/2/gillette-as-in-the-razor-blades-an-interview-with-frank-diamond
A short story by Frank Diamond published in his short story collection “Damage Control.” My daughter wants a hamster. We’ve already got a dog, Spike, and he’s a handful. I’m not dead-set against a hamster, and neither is my wife. But we’re not jumping in, either. My daughter’s the nicest little 12-year-old you’d ever want … Continue reading Hemingway the Second
a short story by Frank Diamond https://www.dreamerswriting.com/frank-diamond/
By Frank Diamond [ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN NOVEMBER, 2005 IN THE PHILADELPHIA EVENING BULLETIN.] As apropos for the night before Thanksgiving, something not too filling: A tale related third-hand. I don’t often pay full attention to the homilies on Sunday — a reflection more on my poor concentration than on the quality of the speeches. However, … Continue reading So Very Much To Be Thankful For
a short story by Frank Diamond appearing in The Fictional Cafe. https://www.fictionalcafe.com/ave-maria-on-the-moon-by-frank-diamond/
https://soundcloud.com/user-132915329/pennypack-park
Lyrics by Frank Diamond
Music by Camille Peruto
Performed by Camille Peruto
“You stay your age forever.”
Sign now, sit back, watch
These premiums will not change
As indemnification unfolds
October leaves drift like embers
Each snapshot freezes, then evolves
Moral hazard roils and regals
As outliers in mid-orbit pause
Dodging regression to the mean
“Love stays its age forever?”
No, it’s different looking back
That’s no stranger in the corner
Slowly waking from her nap
https://soundcloud.com/user-132915329/toliveagaintheplacewherethechiefsmeet
This is an audio experience on the Soundcloud platform. It contains the song “To Live Again” written and performed by Camille Peruto to accompany the short story, “The Place Where the Chiefs Meet,” written by Frank Diamond (me) and narrated by Maggie Peruto.
CHAPTER ONE My very first hit I’m like 13 years old. I never even smoked a cigarette before, but I want to be Kat Borkowski, and she’s the one hands me that joint. This is at Newt’s on Blair Street back in the day, before it got cleaned up and put on airs with some … Continue reading Conduit
“Some old bag probably just lost her old bag,” Mike Feller decides with a shrug. He had just turned onto Godfrey Avenue when his beams swiped an object. At first Mike thinks it’s a dead animal, then realizes it’s a bundle of some sort. It could be a pocketbook; it’s laying on the yellow line … Continue reading Beggar
It was quiet when I got in. There’s something almost cathedral-like about McStew’s in the slow hours. The light filters in through the stained glass, and every echo sounds like a kneeler being slammed down. How many windbaggy dreams were offered up? How many resolutions? How many times had someone come in full of new … Continue reading Surprise!
I dream that my late wife, Megan, and my very-much-alive girlfriend, Sophia, sit in a café downtown, sharing wine and some delicate finger thingys — rare cheeses, quiche, caviar. They are working class girls who climbed up and out, and neither would munch like this in real life. Give ’em Buffalo wings! The spicier the … Continue reading The Winnings
I reach into my back pocket, unfold both copies of the formula and hand them to him. “Here’s the Fountain of Youth,” I say. “Golden,” Jake says, squinting at the figures. “Cheryl, you’re amazing.” “Careful,” I say. “Looks like rain.” He leans against his car, gives me a look. He places his hands on my … Continue reading The Chase
I could either lie awake afraid, or angry. I choose anger. But I didn’t become angry at Marty for not giving me a raise this year, or the soccer coach who benched Debbie because of her attitude. I got mad at me, Cheryl DeMarco. At my younger self. I got mad that I am a … Continue reading The Checklist
Outerbridge voices
Reach from rest
Nothing lays still
In nether fog
Spread blankets
Over graves
Burgundy sipped
As midnight rises
Bloated at world’s end
Fold newspaper
Horoscope out
Dead swamp, dark layers
Save for future
Space in the attic
Like one more box
Where dust descends
Wait for deliverance
As purgatorial voices
Gather in layers
Outside rotted doors
A friend’s dad is a ward leader and we get to be on the advance team for Robert F. Kennedy and that means Secret Service clearance and other privileges. When RFK arrives in Philadelphia in late March, we ride in the motorcade out to Our Lady of Czethochowa in Doylestown. Because we have college kid … Continue reading 1968
I decided to explore, find a hoagie shop somewhere. Hunger and the need to get my bearings allowed me to set aside the unpacking for a while. I had moved away from this neighborhood 30 years earlier. The places I knew then had either closed or changed ownership long ago. The residents were now predominately … Continue reading Welcome to the Neighborhood
Mr. Landrew read like crazy. When I was a kid, about twice a month he’d saunter down Albanus Street in the Olney section of Philadelphia carrying the latest pile of books he’d gotten out of the library. He’d use one of his old belts to tie them into a bundle. It was a big bundle, … Continue reading The Reader
I’m a light sleeper anyway. I miss nothing: the creak of a door, the settling of a load-bearing wall, the slightest rustle of the living room curtains. It was a little after 5 a.m. when I awoke. There was noise at my door. Someone knocked about trying to get the key in the two locks. … Continue reading Dizzy Returns
I bumped into Al Durante at about 5:30 one morning at the Dunkin’ Donuts on East Lincoln Highway in Langhorne. I don’t quite remember all the details. It was early and I hadn’t yet had my caffeine. Either I wanted to make sure that I hadn’t cut in front of him, or vice versa but … Continue reading The Opposite of Social Distancing
“Strawberry daiquiri,” you tell the bartender. He’s not happy. It’s not shot-n-beer. You just tagged yourself “outsider” in this tough Philly neighborhood. Now you’ve broken two “too” rules: ordering a too-fancy drink, and sitting too close to Trouble. You’re trying your best not to let on that you notice, but Trouble’s next to you. Her … Continue reading Meet Trouble
So two guys walk into a crowded bar on a Friday night at the exact moment a couple right near the door stand and—presto—two vacant stools. They belly-up and the bartender’s there. They are regulars, a little older than the crowd that averages late-20s to mid-40s. Two beers. They quaff deeply and put their pints … Continue reading The Calling
Your hair, that hair of yours
No, of course, it doesn’t define you
Curly, bouncing, bold, boyant
Light brown with tints of red
That’s what I said (you set me straight)
People pay to look that way
You didn’t even go to a hairdresser
For ten easy years. Remember?
Perfect prelude to cascading laugh
Sways like a searchlight’s pivot
Lets your eyes shine hope, joy
Toward the children you’ve taught
To old people drawn to warmth
Never like the other girls
Wouldn’t bother carrying a purse
One — that’s right — one pair of shoes
Of the earth, by the sun, to the sea
But what feeds on you eats at me
Right here in Buddy’s Barber Shop
Where photos dim every inch of wall
Tumble down, down like a pyre’s end
“I’m not going to let this beat me. Watch!”
Not if have any say it won’t. (I don’t.)
Love discovers from now back to start
As your beautiful noggin’ steals my heart
Old man next door
Dying from love
45 years married
Wife gone (what?)
About 45 minutes
We say he lost his love
But he looks for her still
Shakes out the laughs
She’s not there
The sunsets, and rain baths
Not there either
Moments of “glad grace”
Jeez, not a friggin’ trace
He stands by the memory chute
But they’re no substitute
I catch him in his car
Staring beyond the driveway
Ask him, “You OK?”
Tells me it’s day-to-day
I know what he means
Man wants to die
Dark hands his only hope
Of seeing love again
There’s nothing that rhymes
Or explains away the unending,
Sharp-stabbing grief —
Which leads me to us
That’s right, you and me
You’ve never asked
What you mean to me
If you did I’d just point
Across the way
You never asked
But for once I tell
You are air and water
And, yes, “shadows deep”
So, now, can we
Get something to eat?
And then later maybe catch
Some serious Zs by the fire?
And murmur, softly murmur,
Our incommunicable joy
“This is the bitterest pain among men, to have much knowledge but no power.” — Herodotus This profound, timeless quote — a touchstone of many experiencing dark nights of the soul — makes me think that Herodotus must have coached softball. Specifically, he must have coached his 11-year-old daughter’s junior varsity softball team and watched, … Continue reading Field of Schemes
On the night of the first and most important PTA meeting of that year, 2005, the sky cracked open — according to Principal Maggie Batten’s watch — at 6:42 p.m. She’d been testing the sound system when, suddenly, there seemed to be a thousand hands slapping the sides of the building. “Mr. Norbeck?” Maggie called. … Continue reading Maintenance
There was something about the ocean that made 12-year-old Emily Dunn happy and sad at the same time. She couldn’t quite figure out why, but her mother had a theory.
Monkeydemon is the reason I stand on this bridge above a man-made lake in the middle of which sits a man-made island. It is 10:30 on New Years Eve. Anticipatory bangs, pops, and shouts stumble in the pitched distance. I parked in a cutoff in fog-laden brush. No cars passed as I carried my package … Continue reading Monkeydemon
The world has lost its beauty
Once filtered through your eyes.
Sunset, sunrise, falling fall leaves
Shift now into a dimmer space,
But I still seek cohesion
With evidence of things not seen
And the scales that fall will weigh.
Do I really need these videos?
These unnecessary glass totems?
Memories swoon, drift and die
Then rise at the oddest moments.
My tickets on the River Styx,
But everything else needs to go.
How do you weigh stuff against spirit?
We were both such able thrower-outers,
But look here at this refinancing pack,
Long ago digested by other deals.
“I won’t ever let you go!”
I think as I dismantle
Rooms, chimneys and the backyard fence.
“I just … just cannot stand it!”
Echoes against walls that used to be.
We meet in the afternoon. Since Amy raises a young child, she’s the first to leave. I linger. Twice I stop at the hotel bar but it smells like formaldehyde, and after that I usually head back to the Vault—to where we began. Inside the Vault, business people unwind and I study the list of … Continue reading The Vault
Sure, I lie. Just to calm her down. I squeeze her shoulders—she on the ground, now—and I don’t even ask “Are you choking?” or “Do you need help?” like they teach in first aid. Because she’s beyond frickin’ choking to the not breathing part and somebody sure as hell better help. I tell her, “I … Continue reading The Deposition
Chances are you knew the place. Maybe you’d wandered in lost, looking for the way to Route 1 or I-95. Or maybe you were a regular, who buzzed in and out several times a week. Part of the routine. No one is ever going to call a gas station a landmark, but Stan’s Mobil came … Continue reading Attention Must Be Paid to a Quiet, Decent Man’s Life
I said good-bye to factory work, and being a cook, and delivering snack food, and a lot of other kick-around jobs when I got a part-time position as a reporter with the Northeast Times in 1984. I would stay for a year and now remember, as the Times celebrates 75 years of publishing with this … Continue reading Remembering My First Newspaper Boss: Marilyn Schaefer
Finding these drugs is like suddenly coming across flashing detour signs. Everything changes. I am here in this suburban nook of a playground because I’d read in the weekly that cops had busted teens right by the sliding board and swings. The news had been accompanied by an editorial stating that the scourge of addiction … Continue reading Vapor
Frank Diamond 