fiction, poetry & more


by Salvatore Difalco

Yeah, so I remember the person by using them in a story. Like my Uncle Frank. He was a cool man. I miss him.

“Sammy, what are you doing?”

“Hey, Uncle Frank.”

I kiss both his cheeks. He smells like Brut cologne, something he wore when I was a child.

“Are you still in school?”

“Haha, no Uncle Frank. I finished a long time ago.”

“Do you still visit your mother?”

“Of course I do.”

He takes my hand and squeezes it.

“I remember everything, Uncle Frank. I’ll never forget you.”

“Thank you, Sammy. You’ve been a good nephew. Not always the most honest—”

“Hey, really?”

“Come on, Sammy. We always knew what you were.”

Uncle Frank lights a cigarette with a match. He heats the filter end with the match flame, then blows out the match. I can smell the sulphur. He purses his lips and pulls on the cigarette.

“Still smoking, eh?”

He smiles and shrugs. “It was my only vice.”

“That and a little poker.”

“I liked poker. I was never good but I liked it.”

“I still play.”

“That’s good, Sammy. Okay, it’s time for me to go.”


“What is it?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Sammy. It’s okay over there. No worries.”

A car horn blares outside. I look up from my desk with tears in my eyes. I hate the world sometimes.


Salvatore Difalco’s work has appeared in a number of print and online formats. He splits his time between Toronto and Palermo, Sicily.