Fiction - Prologue

“‘And this also,’ said Marlow suddenly, ‘has been one of the dark places of the earth’.”

                                                                                     —Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Dad clambers into the boat with the grace of a roller skating giraffe. Clutching the tackle box in one hand and lugging our rods in the other, he’s able to muster up enough balance to keep him from toppling right over the other side and into the lake. Me reaching out and grabbing the edge of his lifejacket probably helps as well.

“Whoa geez,” he mutters. It takes him a second or ten to regain his equilibrium, the now sharp rocking of the boat from side to side not aiding the process in the slightest. Arms spread, he shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. By the time he’s fully exhaled the boat’s perilous oscillations have been reduced to a slight lateral bob. His eyelids flick open and the corner of his mouth turns upward, removing a few lines (and a few years) from his face. “Thanks, hon,” he says.

Fiction - Richard's Ribald Romances #1

"Don't Call Me a Hero" or, the Misadventures of One Young Rogue on a Cold Winter's Eve

By Richard Costello (as told to David Merrick)

December 16^th, 2008

The Rodeo, whose name I automatically process as the “Hoe-deo” for its largely sleazy and easy female patronage, is a cheap C&W-themed bar located in the heart of Vanier. On any given night of the week you can step onto its hardwood dance floor and be grinding up against a drunk chick to the sound of “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)” in ten seconds flat. Its head bartender, Jacques, sports a mullet and worships at the feet of Billy Ray Cyrus. And every Tuesday—Karaoke Night—there’s bound to be at least one girl belting out a particularly sloshed rendition of a Dixie Chicks tune. It is, to be blunt, a redneck dive.