Stories by
Daniel Galef

We talked philosophy all through the night, until the sun didn’t come up. When she finally left, I was no longer sure who or if we were.

Daniel Galef writes things sometimes.

We pile in, wailing with the siren, start the first of a million card games, ignore the banging on the bunker door; it stops soon enough.

Daniel Galef reads when he isn’t writing.

The goodbye note, all I had left of her, was spotted with little drops, smudging the paper. They looked like tears, but smelled like scotch.

Daniel Galef writes when he isn’t reading.

One candy heart out of a billion says: I know it can never be the same, and that’s okay. I smile and think of you, then wish I hadn’t.

Daniel Galef reads when he isn’t writing.

Today was okay. I call up my in-progress file s_note.DOC and edit some, add a reference to Mom, add “very” to the end bit: “so very sorry.”

Daniel Galef writes when he isn’t reading.

It turned into a prince, like it said, but its lungs were still on the metal tray, and it still stank of formaldehyde. I wiped my mouth.

Daniel Galef writes when he isn’t reading.