Shannon Eichorn

In the spirit of Mikey Mason's talk on turning a hobby into a profession, I'm sharing a few things here for free, so readers can get a sense of my work. Feel free to contact me with comments!

The doctor was surprised by the visit: the old man stumbled through the clinic's back door, drunk as a purple skunk, screaming about those blasted Arabians and their hellish nights. The countryman forgave the insult and cast yet another annoyed glare at the city cathedral beyond the clinic's alley dumpster.

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He vowed to write her, and he put on the mask. It had taken years to get the thing to fit right: the wide contours didn't suit his narrow chin, and the narrow eyes restricted his vision. So he'd padded the chin, set up mirrors for his eyes. It had taken years to learn speech, years to want to be around people. That was all after the first bout of depression.

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Please don't touch that. It's Papa's pipe. He used to fill it with cherry tobacco and clench it in his teeth while we played catch in the driveway every night. He hated when he missed the ball, and the tobacco spilled as he leaned down. I picked it up from his pooling blood as soon as I could see clearly.

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