Brad Rose's Page

The police were astonishingly polite. They knocked at Richard’s front door, waited patiently for Richard to come to the door, and when he answered, they explained that they were conducting a routine investigation of an auto theft, and wanted ask him “just a few questions.” They even called him “sir.”

As one officer, a lumbering man who looked as if he had killed many criminals in his career, began to ask Richard if he had any knowledge of a couple that he may have seen walking along Mulholland… Continue

Lola parked her car outside Jackie’s small, Spanish style home, just south of Melrose. She had found the address with no trouble, and after she got out of the car, she walked along a small cement path that led to the back of the house, where she entered Jackie’s small, but quite comfortably furnished office.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jackie said, as she extended her hand and looked Lola directly in the eye for a second longer than was entirely comfortable for Lola.

Jackie was warm, but no… Continue

On the way to her first therapy appointment with Jackie Weston, Lola found that, for some inexplicable reason, scenes from her childhood were now popping into her head. Although the day was sunny and the Santa Monica freeway was crowded with traffic, in her mind’s eye, she had been transported to her parents’ house in Boston, years ago, when she was about 13.

Letting herself drift, now, Lola recalled the times when, to escape the mid-summer heat and humidity, she would descend the house’s stair… Continue

Lola opened the package she’d received that morning by UPS, from her father in Boston, unwrapping it carefully, and taking extra care not to break its contents. She discovered however, that rather than something delicate and breakable, the package contained a set of ultra soft, flannel sheets. She loved flannel sheets, but the weather in Los Angles hardly called for such cozy bed linens.

She knew her father was well-intentioned and that he really loved her, even if his gifts were sometimes a li… Continue

There are places time abandons, neither old nor new. This is the result of the law of averages. The future is an unrealized hour, vacant as the shoes of the dead, while the past reinvents itself, until it has disappeared. In a one-sided sleep, I sometimes dream a Mobius dream--nothing inside nor out. Wakefulness, a glitterning fuse, burns towards this moment until nothing happens, nor can. When eyed from certain angles, there is no such thing as now.