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People With Problems is a collection of stories I wrote, one a week, like scooping strange fish from the sea. All different sizes, textures, colors…

Then I asked talented artist friends to each choose a story to illustrate, and it was as if I had released my fish back into the ocean and saw them return with mates.

I put a lot of care into exploring the subjects of the stories, which range from absurd, to darkly comic, to heartbreaking. Kirkus Reviews was complimentary with regard to their breadth and depth:

A collection of 29 character-driven works of flash fiction … shows that a lot can be done with a very limited word count.

– Kirkus Reviews

I hope you enjoy meeting the book’s various People With Problems as much as I have.

It’s available as a paperback or ebook—both of which include the full-color illustrations—from these retailers.

If you sign up for my newsletter in the field below, you’ll immediately receive a copy of the ebook for free.

Thanks for reading, and thanks for your support!

We can barely move in these tight quarters, so we weren’t surprised when they went to bed and we heard pop, pop-pop. It feels good to laugh.

They talk soft around the rest of us, and tiptoe everywhere, even when they’ve taken the antlers off to work.

Qualls made a pun: “Be a deer and pass me the salt.” Now everyone says it.

Shelby and Winston pretend to aim rifles and laugh at their eyes getting big.

Yesterday, during their off-hours, we couldn’t find one. Kent walked down the length of the sub carrying the antlers, checked every nook, behind the pipes, between consoles, and finally found him hidden inside a torpedo tube. He pretended to be asleep, like he’d forgotten it was time to antler up.

Tonight’s the big show. Eight Points waits by the bunks, Ten Points by the periscope, and we all sit in the cafeteria between them. We ante spare change and nicotine patches into empty dehydrated pea cans.

On Callahan’s countdown from ten, they’ll charge. The antlers will clatter.

The dark water all around us will keep quiet.

On the street, Brian’s waistband itched, his bowels ached.

He watched two pockmarked men pull the guts from a beaten stereo. A woman with red cheeks massaged her foot, which looked like a ham rolled in an ashtray.

Keith sucked the gap of his missing incisors. “Got a gun or a knife, Brain?” Keith was calling him “Brain.”

“No.” His parents took his Swiss Army knife before they kicked him out.

“Guys’ll cutchyer throat.” Keith pointed at a man straightening a cardboard awning. The man glared.

Brian’s abdomen groaned. He looked down and asked, “Where do people around here, uh… go?”

Keith said loudly, “One or two, Brain?”

Brian murmured, “Two.”

Keith made a show of leaning to look up and down the block. “G’wan behind that white car. Coast is clear. I gotcha.”

The stereo men chuckled.

Brian left his backpack, walked fast and squatted behind a white sedan. He reasoned this was something the others experience all the time.

A woman with keys appeared between the cars and said an involuntary, “Uh-guh,” and got in her car and pulled out, revealing Brian to the street.

The tents roared with laughter.

Brian didn’t look at Keith as he picked up his backpack, pulled out his cigarettes and lit one.

Keith laughed. “Look, kid, I’m sorry. Say, you couldn’t spare…”

Brian offered the pack. One left.

Keith stared at it. Then took it, and his eyes went serious. “Gotta get you a weapon, Brian. We’ll figure somethin’ out, don’t worry.”

Starting at the back of his skull he unwrapped the plastic, winding down his head and neck, down each arm, around his torso, down each leg, and finally removed the seafoam green latex gloves I’d failed to even notice he was wearing. He let them drop like heavy leaves onto the small mound of plastic wrap before opening his stance, extending his arms, and holding position.

His muscles glistened with slime under the lights.

The instructor said, “Okay, get drawing.”

Maria looked at me and mouthed, “what the fuck.”

*

At break, the model went straight into the bathroom.

Maria and I smoked out front.

I said, “I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“I know, is this not weird to anyone else?”

“Maybe he has a disease.”

“If so, it’s gross of Mr. Gottlieb to use him like this.”

Someone cleared their throat behind us, and it was him. His wet body shone in the sun, muscles flexed as he lifted a hand and said, “Got an extra smoke?”

Maria gasped and laughed. “Oh my god, it’s a fucking suit.”

“Yeah, what’d you think?” he said.

“I feel so stupid.”

He lit the cigarette and curled his lip. “You wanna see what’s underneath?”

What would it feel like to crush them in my fist? Not in the living room, over the light yellow carpet. I could do it outside.

I could put them in a bowl with a spoon, and just before Rosalyn gets home I’ll add milk.

Milk would ruin them; it’s not worth the joke.

Plus, then she’ll know that’s what I’ve been doing instead of my résumé.

I take a mug from the cupboard and pour them in. They sound like balled-up saltwater taffy wrappers. There still aren’t enough to reach the brim. I take the mug to the basement, and after an hour of moving grime-grayed shelving, flowerpots, and broken patio furniture, I have enough to look straight across the lip of the mug and see legs like eyelashes, wings like nail clippings, red eyes like hardened drops of blood peeking over the edge.

I wish this were a real job. I’d get a van with a logo. I’d be the go-to.

It would be irresponsible not to count and photograph these. For posterity.

Two hundred and fifty-eight flies.

In slippers on the back patio, I carefully ball my hands around them.

Thanks for your interest in the birdcage. Yes, that green is the original color! I was going through a box of my mom’s things this weekend and happened to find this photo (attached) from when she bought it in 1969. The photo is b/w so you’ll have to trust me that it was green. The bird is mom’s macaw, Salvatore. That’s my mom sticking her finger through the bars, and it’s a family joke that this photo was taken seconds before she lost the tip of her finger, which actually happened about a week later.

The cage was small for a macaw, but Salvatore only came out on Sundays to sit on my dad’s shoulder when he smoked his pipe on the back porch.

Macaws can live for 50 years, but he died very young. My brother opened the cage, and Salvatore flew right through the plate glass window. He probably thought it was Sunday.

Then mom kept a pair of budgies in the cage. My brother taught them to say “Jane, stop this crazy thing!” and they’d say it to each other for hours. Then while we were at school mom taught them to say “Jetson, you’re fired!”

I know there are photos of mom with the budgies, but I haven’t found them in her things yet. I’m pacing myself.

Gandalf89, your offer is generous, but I’ve decided to keep the cage. I’m very sorry. Thank you for reminding me of these things I’d almost forgotten.