Another dive into Amazon self-publishing, is Vignettes of the Office – Darkly Told. These five short stories are new, with the caveat I’ve been working on them for a while. These stories are wee visits to the dark side of anyone’s office environment or experience. Ever wonder what’s in those burritos Benita Mae makes for you all? Ever wonder what goes through the mind of the old guy, the one with the most seniority, but not yet promoted to the corner office by the window? And what about the oddball of the crew? What’s his out-of-office life all about?

I’ve written a few horror shorts over the years. When I’m writing them I do enjoy it and am somewhat surprised by the dark turn my mind takes in the process. Later, after reading them again, I’m equally surprised that such came from me. Where did I get that stuff?

Here’s the Amazon link. And here’s a sample:

Henry hunkered in his cubby. Gave up the cup of Clorox in his bath. Popped Viargra the moment he arrived at work—the resulting rise the penultimate affirmation of his manhood. Peeked into his briefcase at ten, noon, and two, and gave a wink to the silent presence and determined promise of the .44 caliber magnum he now carried to-and-fro his and Shirley’s snug condo.  He still smiled at his workmates, but without a “Hi.” Avoided the break room. Ate his lunch at his desk. Ceased dispensing his wisdom to workmates, who’d yet to be born when he first occupied his cubby; a time when he first began to nurture the certainty of his destiny, his passion to be the honcho, el jefe, el supremo, the boss.

Days of Henry’s funk turned to weeks, months. Workmates passed his cubby, smelled something feral, something dangerous. Those who turned their heads to view Henry’s slump within his ergonomically designed chair, saw the newly exaggerated hump of his shoulders as he leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his phone to his ear, his former high-pitched screech now only a bare raspy whisper. Others noticed—their glances quick, unobtrusive—what appeared to be peaches lined across his desk. Still others saw Henry’s ear holes untended, the wiry black hairs remarkably prolific, long enough to braid.

On a Wednesday, hump day, Henry ate seven peaches at his desk, left the seeds neatly spread, one after another, across his now juiced work surface, his tie and shirt, too, had received a squirt or two. At noon—High Noon, he thought, feeling the jut of his Viagra-induced hard-on against the cotton of his boxers stubbed up against his tan polyester pants—he turned his back to the entrance to his cubby, and opened his briefcase. He gently lifted the chrome-plated pistol from its lair, pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket, and polished the heavy weapon until it gleamed. He smiled.