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Somewhere in New York City tonight, two strangers are arguing about time and dignity on a ferry – and somehow, that’s because of me. The Last Shine officially opens at The Secret Theatre as part of the Queens Short Play Festival, and I’m still processing the surreal math of it all: a script born in Florida,
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This short story was the First Place Winner in the “Historic Fiction” group of the NYCMidnight Writing challenge. Limited to only 500 words, the judges had this to say about the piece: “It uses the motif of music expertly” “The writing is beautiful, vivid and poetic, with a sharpness.” “I found the twist to be
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Auditions: strangers.Closing night: siblings.Strike: bitter custody battle where no one gets the good prop sword. That’s the cycle. Every show. Every time. The judge rules: Act I: The Rehearsal Cult You don’t join a cast. You’re abducted.Script in hand.Eyes wide.Someone already humming warm-ups like a Gregorian monk who overdosed on LaCroix. Day One: Hi, nice to
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It begins with a time-rift, as all good stories do. Not a respectable rift, with equations and wormholes, but the sloppy kind you find wedged between a Pac-Man cabinet and a hay bale. Billy Mitchell, hair slicker than a buttered riverboat and tie redder than a saloon door at midnight, stumbled through. He was carrying
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Burnout doesn’t knock politely. It crash-lands in your inbox like a flaming email chain where everyone is still hitting “Reply All.” And if you’re a lawyer, entrepreneur, or philanthropist (or worse – some mutant cocktail of all three like me), burnout isn’t a risk, it’s practically a job perk. We spend our days juggling statutes,
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Let’s be honest: the Bard has had a good run. Four centuries of English teachers whispering “iambic pentameter” like it’s a Hogwarts spell, theatre majors in black turtlenecks defending Twelfth Night as peak comedy, and countless people nodding solemnly at jokes they didn’t actually understand. But somewhere between a Publix parking lot and an alligator-infested drainage canal,
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So, apparently I’m the runner-up. Which is perfect, because Dog-Eared Truths was never about winning. It’s about limping forward with torn pages and coffee-stained margins, muttering “I’ll fix it in Act II” while life heckles from the cheap seats. The play is a duel between Ronan and Caelum – though really, it’s Ronan vs. Ronan, with Caelum acting as
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Forget Zillow. Forget Redfin. Forget that guy on TikTok who screams about cap rates while standing in an unfinished kitchen. If you want to understand real estate — truly understand it — you need to look no further than Barbie’s Malibu Dreamhouse. A shrine in pink plastic. A mortgage-free monument to the lie we all keep
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The First Day of School is propaganda. It’s shiny shoes, fresh folders, and parents pretending this year will be “different.” The First Day of School is a glossy brochure. It’s full of Instagrammable smiles, perfectly packed lunches, and vows to be more organized this year. The First Day is about sharp pencils, pressed shirts, and parents who somehow
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You bring your biases, I’ll bring mine, and maybe – just maybe – we’ll make a verdict. Jury duty is the last place in America where people from every conceivable corner of the human condition are forced into a single, climate-controlled room with fluorescent lighting and the vague promise of justice. It’s not just a
Brian Brijbag 