About Christian Fitzgerald
Stay-at-home-dad, fiction writer, stand up comedy bomber, secret songwriter, graduate of Berklee College of Music with a degree in film scoring. (He/Him)
It’s a weird thing to wake up in your forties, in the thick of raising kids, and wonder when the last time was that you did something frivolous.
Well, that was a whirlwind. Neon Glaze, the sci-fi novel I started writing in January, is finished.
I’m sitting with my son at a restaurant and I so badly want to tell him about all the beauty in life—all the wonderful moments he’ll have that I hope so badly he internalizes and enjoys.
I didn’t. No, I swear on my mother’s grave, I did not cheat. What’s that? You have video footage? Are you sure that’s me?
Oh, yes you’re right, that Bart Simpson bench pressing tattoo is featured very prominently. Ok, so I have that same tattoo in that same place, but I mean, c’mon, that hardly makes for a water-tight case.
My eight-year-old was reflecting on something his grandfather had written — a story about an art lesson where you draw your hand. The catch is that you aren’t supposed to look at your drawing until it’s done (your eyes never leave your hand) and you don’t lift the pencil from the page. In the end, you have an abstract, continuous line drawing that likely doesn’t look much like a hand at all.
Hey y’all, check out my short story of a (mostly) fictional narcissistic billionaire’s search for immortality. Come for the inequality rage, stay for the lolz.
At night I often read the book Outside Your Window: a first book of nature by Nicola Davies to my kids. It’s a beautiful book with poems for every season, and my four-year-old in particular loves it.
Mom hovers over my bed; it’s pitch black and I’m confused. She’s said something. “What?” I say.
“Paul’s mom called and asked if we could help her out before school. Get up, we’re taking Paul to breakfast.”
I prop myself up on my arm and rub sleep from my eyes. “What time is it?”
Latest posts
short story
Read my stories
short story • Devil’s Party Press
flash fiction • Spillwords Press
short story • Roi Fainéant Press
The kids’ passports are expiring and we have a trip to Costa Rica scheduled for this summer. My wife made an appointment to renew the passports. My job was to gather the materials we’d need, gather the children we’d need, find out where we had to go…