The Saturday Evening Post is impenetrable. It was one of the first publications I ever read. I would page through Norman Rockwell prints as a three and four-year-old boy and try to be one of the guys in my grandfather’s South Philly barber shop. He’d always have the latest issue front and center, and I’d pretend I knew how to read Edgar Allan Poe and F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ray Bradbury as I stained the now-priceless covers with sticky, green lollipop juice.
Now my own work can be found under the iconic masthead of one of this nation’s true bastions of contemporary fiction. I couldn’t possibly be happier. My heart, today, is full.
Please enjoy the outlandish lives of Arnie Trundle and Queen Colossus in “A Colossal Mistake”.