Wild Sound turned one of my short pieces into an audio read. You can hear it from any of the links below.
https://www.wildsound.ca/videos/dog-days-of-summer
https://festivalforfamily.com/2025/09/29/family-short-story-dog-days-of-summer-by-david-pizzurro/
I wished Billy a happy birthday today. She told me she’s thriving and sent a couple of pictures of her daughter—she’s adorable. I told Billie that motherhood was always where she belonged. She agreed, saying it’s given her a whole new perspective.
She also said she thinks of me often. I can say the same. We bonded through trauma, but these days our connection feels less about what we endured and more about acknowledging that we survived.
Since my divorce, I haven’t had many meaningful relationships. That’s why it matters when someone like Billy remembers me as a positive part of her story. Even with Tinkerbell, for all the chaos, there’s still a mutual respect and acknowledgment.
Gia was different. With her, I did everything right—or as right as I knew how—and still didn’t get the ending I wanted. She walked away and erased the relationship completely.
The irony is that Gia probably would have stayed longer in a messy, chaotic relationship. But I’m not built that way anymore.
And that's okay.
Gia and I sit in the Buick, waiting in line for gas at BJ’s. A cool summer morning filters sunlight through the windshield, warming us in the stillness.
I turn up the radio. A lull between songs, the
murmur of a concert crowd—and then it begins. A pulsing rhythm. Jackson
Browne’s Running On Empty,
an iconic moment recorded live in Columbia, Maryland, 1977.
Lookin' out at
the road rushin' under my wheels
Lookin' back at the years gone by like so many summer fields
Gia has lived in eight or ten cities in twenty
years. No roots, nothing sustained. Always running to the next city.
Gotta do what
you can just to keep your love alive
Tryin' not to confuse it with what you do to survive
She runs from connecting, from herself.
Surviving behind walls so thick they’ve become her identity. Pushing away
anyone who might slip inside.
I look around
for the friends that I used to turn to to pull me through
Lookin' into their eyes, I see them runnin' too
It seems like a sad existence, but it’s all
she’s ever known. Performance as armor. Survival as self.
When she stopped trying, so did I. It’s hard
to see value in someone who doesn’t see it in themselves. But she still lingers—in
song, in unanswered questions I still try to understand.
I turn to her and say, “This is your theme song.”
Honey, you
really tempt me, you know, the way you look so kind
I'd love to stick around, but I'm runnin' behind…Running
On Empty, by Jackson Browne
Gia listens for a moment, then shakes her
head. She disagrees.
But I don’t.
I worked on a piece over the weekend. It was a condensed version of Chapter 2 from my revised Memoir. The new piece was for an upcoming anthology for Beyond Words. It was a one-word call: Father, which is the theme of the anthology. I received this today:
I am happy to inform you that your piece Fragments has been selected and will feature in our father-themed anthology!
We will be in touch later in 2025 with further information.
Until then, congratulations and take care,
Gal Slonim
Editor
on behalf of the Editorial Board
Beyond Words
Friday, I went out to eat with a coworker, Wennie, and her wife, Ariel. It was Wennie’s idea for us to meet—Ariel is working on a memoir, too. They recently moved to Michigan after many years in California. Ariel is my age; Wennie is about a decade younger, one of those people who could easily pass for much younger.
Ariel’s health seemed fragile. She walked with difficulty, horn-rimmed glasses perched too small on her face. Her quiet appearance didn’t give away the colorful past she lived on the West Coast.
Once we swapped a few stories, I felt at ease talking about my own book. We exchanged emails and agreed to share writing. I’ll admit—I’m always a little intimidated by people like Ariel who have taken real writing classes. I’ve had no formal training; everything I’ve learned came from mistakes.
But Ariel had been part of a group of writers in California, and it reminded me how important it is to connect with others who share the same interests.
"You've wasted your summer," she said—not for the first time—as if the end of summer marked some invisible boundary of importance.
Sam drew out another cigarette and lit it. She wasn’t ready
to leave. The shadows were deepening around us. It had been bright when we
entered the restaurant, but now no light leaked through the blinds, proving her
point: summer was ending.
I tried to form a reply. I sputtered partial phrases, none
of which made much sense.
"Don't get defensive," she continued. "You
need to find someone more mature. Someone who can offer you something
mentally."
It sounded horribly boring to me. Like watching paint
dry—acrylic paint, not oil-based, no fumes to enjoy. I wasn’t looking for a
partner to challenge me intellectually. I don’t put much thought into
things—except people—and you don’t need a PhD to observe people.
I wanted the fumes.
"You deserve better," is what she was really
saying. I’ve heard that before. More often than not, it’s less about me and
more about them. My instinctive response is always the same: I don’t want better—I
want you. More accurately, I want what I see in you. They don’t see it
in themselves, or they don’t share the same vision.
Why is what I seem to deserve and what I want so far apart?
I’ve already reviewed my childhood trauma. I don’t want to
remarry, and I’m not looking for someone to grow old with—just the thought
turns my stomach. I’d rather be alone than settle for someone who doesn’t
interest me. I’ve created my own narrow lane.
Firefly sits across the couch from me, eating a bowl of ice
cream.
“After meeting you, I cannot see you being with someone your own age. You’re
young at heart. Most people your age are boring. They’ve given up,” she says.
One in twenty people will go to jail in their lifetime. I know six friends and several acquaintances who have spent at least a night there. I’m not sure what that says about my social circle. I’m not saying I haven’t done things that could have landed me in jail—I just didn’t get caught.
I don’t seem like the type of guy who would end up in jail. My tattoos might suggest otherwise to a casual observer, though.
Why am I thinking about this? I was searching for a post about the time Tinkerbell spent a night in jail. It was over a domestic argument with her baby-daddy at the time. They took her in just to cool her off. I’m sure I wrote about it back then, but searching through 2,000 posts without a tag is like fishing for a needle in a haystack.
It has to be out there. It was too funny not to record.
I got my first acceptance today. Neon Origami is a website dedicated to publishing writers' work. I am happy I can share it here.
I had this piece I always liked, A Tang of Lime. It is a well-crafted
piece of flash nonfiction centered around a real-life flirtatious conversation
layered with the cost of friendships. You can click on the link if you would
like to read it.
