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A few names I would consider calling my kids: Addison, Auburn, Berkeley, Brooklyn, Cassidy, Escott, Prescott, Preston, Quinn, Radcliffe, Sheldon, Templeton, Thurston, Vaughn, Whitney and Whittaker.

Feel free to use these names for your children.

We were parked in front of her house alongside the curb near their driveway. I hadn’t met him yet, but her older brother was smoking on the porch, conveniently working on his laptop, occasionally glancing toward my car to watch over his sister.

I remember silently staring at the blinking streetlight on the corner while waiting for a sign or something to say. I confessed, before thinking, that I wasn’t in the market for a friend. I had trouble scheduling time with the acquaintances I had already acquired.

She made a promise after her last break up to focus on school and avoid anything serious. We had been dating for less than a month before I somehow managed to convince her into our relationship.

Looking back, I might have handled situations differently… but what was I supposed to do, knowing she was the one? And subsequently, how can I start over, now that everything is done?

The truth is, I miss you.

It is possible I might have fractured my ankle the other night while playing basketball. When jumping for a rebound, my arms furiously fighting for the loose ball, I came down hard, landing upon the laces of my defender. My foot rolling as my leg locked. I hit the floor flat, collapsed.

I never notice the pain when walking. It only seems to hurt while sitting. Not quite sure what that means.

Who do you call at three in the morning when you wake from a nightmare and need help home?

My mother and I were driving to the neighborhood nursery to find a few plants for my house. As we pulled into the parking lot the radio station started playing “Creep” by Radiohead… upon the chorus my mother began singing with Thom, the bands frontman. I asked how she knew the words to the song. She said I would always play that track in the cassette deck of the family van when she dropped me off and picked me up from school.

I want to take my father and my brother to Dyersville, Iowa to play a little catch and swing at some pitches on the Field of Dreams.

It was an assignment given to my poetry class in high school. Our teacher wanted us to visit one of several dying bookstores and purchase cheap chap books in support of the local arts and independent publishing. It was a time when family owned shops were slowly going out of business because of larger chains with built in coffeehouses.

My friend and I went to an old shack in Hermosa Beach on Pier Street. The poetry section was located in the back with several shelves dedicated to neighborhood writers. I felt at home sitting in the corner on the broken wood panel floor. The store was empty with Jazz softly playing from a small stereo behind the front counter, where a worker was smoking while reading a story about beatniks in San Francisco.

This was when I decided I wanted to write.