John J. Vinacci

  When I moved to Portland, Oregon in mid-July 2004, just like any other intelligent person I made the move with no job waiting for me. I figured I’d get a job when I needed one – basically, when I’d burned through my savings – and it wouldn’t be much of a task. Indeed, finding a job when the time came would have been easy had I’d been doing massage at the time. Alas, I was not. There was also the matter of having met my future wife my second day in the City of Roses, aka Rip Town, aka Stumptown, aka Bridgetown, aka Portlandia, aka PDX. Far more important than securing a job were late night escapades with mi amor in the vibrant new city. Like Death, though, the taxman cometh eventually.   As it turns out, my savings didn’t last long in an actual city when you’re dating, so getting a job ya bum became a priority sooner rather than later. It turned out to be no small task to the point I answered an intriguing job posting on Craigslist. A ‘prominent’ hotel in downtown was loo...

I hate these goddamn things. If I never go to another funeral it’ll be too soon.   Chuck’s mother is crying. She’s always crying. Everything’s a fucking Hallmark moment with her. Or do I mean Lifetime Special? My thinking gets cloudy in these situations, situations where you need to find some words of consolation, but words escape you. So I put my hand on her shoulder but it doesn’t ease her hyperventilating. It’s no use. I slip my hand in my pocket and fumble around. I need a cigarette.   I’ve smoked for a long time but I don’t need a cigarette; it’s just something you do in these situations when you can’t think of anything to do or say. It’s a distraction. There’s something comforting in the habit. I don’t even have to look; I’ve done it so many times I can slide a cancer stick out of the package and bring it to my lips like I’m on autopilot. I can even bring fire, the lighter, to the tip of the cigarette based on muscle memory alone. I thumb for the chick chick of...

  Lay the soft pink of your Destruction across my lips, Poison me ‘til I’m not whole It’s the quickest path to death; Escort me down that corridor To the far side of a kiss To bliss beyond the noise Take away my virgin breathes, Sweetly kill this saintly soul. All Rights Reserved © March 2017 John J Vinacci

The face, in this picture Looks sort, of familiar The eyes I have seen But the name rather distant When was the time, the immeasurable date? I think I hear an echo of an ovation   A lover, stranger than fiction Dragged by the winds ‘til barely a whisper The years are a museum Ancient and inconsistent When was goodbye? It escapes all my guesses I’m a towering sunspot of repression   I’ve forgotten it, I don’t remember bliss It’s too long ago and too far away It all slipped away, If we ever kissed, my memory’s a ship That sailed long ago and so far away It all slipped away   A face, in a picture A lover, a fiction Surreal like a dream Handed over to oblivion It’s a lifeless cadaver, history’s little disaster It retreated hard and it lasted   …   One day, on the phone A voice sounds like, I haven’t heard it before The words I all know But their antiquity’s not persistent Why are we speaking about s...

  “Welcome to World News Today. I’m Che Colin,” the mocha-skinned anchor spoke, the reverb in his voice muted by his full-face military-grade gas mask.   “Alarming news out of France tonight, where scientists have discovered a new variant of SARS-CoV-2. They’ve dubbed it the Hugo-Unger-Gachet, or HUG, variant. Maya McKinnon reports from Paris.”   The screen cut to a petite woman with frizzy hair bopping a microphone against her similarly upgraded gas mask’s filters. “My apologies Che as we get used to these new masks in hopes of preventing infection,” she started before taking a moment to survey the street. It was deserted as was the café in the correspondent’s background. A few people in their windows above the street pulled back their curtains ever so slightly to monitor the situation as well.   “The latest variant as SARS-CoV-2 is the most contagious yet, largely due to its method of transmission,” she continued. “Once infected, a patient displays the ...

“They are going to love this pitch,” Brad said with his head pitched towards Maven.   “How could they not? Everyone is doing multiverse stories right now. But not quite like this,” Maven answered calmly.   Brad, for a moment, though that was odd. Maven hated pitch meetings since the pair’s ideas were usually rejected. On the other hand, they did have a really good idea for once. A few screenplays in hand, Brad opened the door for his writing partner and the pair entered the movie executive’s office.   The office in Hollywood Hills overlooked a large swath of L.A. The smog wasn’t too bad today, the sun almost shining through. Even Mr. Eichmann’s lackeys looked like they didn’t have their usual sticks up their asses today, though there was never hope for Mr. Eichmann himself. At least not yet.   “Alright you two. Knowing your record so for, unless you wow me right off the bat, this is going to be a quick meeting. What do you have?” The old man didn’t ev...

[Some context: There is some information in my unpublished autobiography that precedes the events recounted here, so I apologize for any lack of clarity in the beginning of this tale.] A true story... In the spring of 2001, if my age-addled brain recalls correctly, I started working for a gym in northern Tucson. I hadn’t been in a gym for a while and this was a big local chain so I was a little nervous at first. The income and hours were good, though, and I really enjoyed the personalities coming into the gym. My time was divided between working the front desk, floor training, making some sales, and providing massage therapy. These varied work experiences would have taken my mind off my desire for companionship at the time except for, you know, all the attractive women. Yet I felt like I owed something to my French ex-girlfriend and made an effort for us to get back together.   'Frenchy' believed me when I told her I never did anything more than kiss another woman while we...