Christopher Lincoln
Stories (5)
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Slave to the Rhythm
At first, he would only go dancing with packs of people, usually co-workers at the restaurant after their shift ended, but after a few trips he felt confident enough to dance by himself. It was actually a relief to go solo, he soon discovered, for he didn’t like the ironic way most of the pack would dance, all clumped up on the floor, the straight cooks uneasily staring at the gay men in the club while conspicuously dancing with (and only with) the waitresses. He also didn’t like the way everyone deferred to the lone gay waiter who traveled with them, either, treating the poor guy like some cicerone who could explain the hidden codes and rules of the gay dance club that the straight people were cheerfully resigned to never decipher.
By Christopher Lincoln4 years ago in Fiction
Love Song of J. Sidney Barrymore
She flew home from London, and he told her about the foxes. He had been field-stripping a cigarette on his property near dusk when he saw the mother running toward an old woodpile behind the red barn. The mother was carrying a dead rat in her mouth and he saw her drop it next to the foot-wide hole in the ground that was partially obscured by scraps of wood.
By Christopher Lincoln5 years ago in Fiction
Ragged Tour
The old man hadn’t seen the sun in six days. For the first few, halting steps outside of the farmhouse, he was willing to let me lead him, but after we walked past the iron water pump the grass felt lush on his feet and he shook my hands off his. “I’m okay,” he said.
By Christopher Lincoln5 years ago in Fiction
Gemini Season
Look at you, Gemini. Just look at you. Either you’re conquering the world by the sheer force of your personality, or you’re laying on the couch in a fetal position with an empty can of chocolate frosting by your head. How did it get this way? How does it always get this way?
By Christopher Lincoln5 years ago in Futurism
Barbara’s Son
One summer night in 1966, my mom got a flat tire when driving to the airport to pick up my father. This was problematic for many reasons, not the least being that it was nearly midnight on a Saturday and my mom had six sleeping children in the car. Compounding matters was that my mom was dressed only in a nightgown and slippers for the 45-minute trip to the airport. “I probably didn’t think that decision through very well,” my mother allowed, years later.
By Christopher Lincoln5 years ago in Families
