Archive | March, 2013

How Would You Fight A Lion?

How Would You Fight A Lion? That’s the name of my new short story.

Though the story has just come out, my readers, ever enthusiastic and faithful, have been flooding me with suggestions about how they’d go about it.

Sarah from Wasilla, for example, would shoot it with a Remington 870 Pump, and then mount the head over her fireplace. Good for you Sarah! Jasmine likes an unreconstructed approach to most things.

Lindsey from Merrick, on the other hand, would punch it between the eyes. Mel from Sydney would complain that it’s Jewish and Brett from Los Angeles would bait it with cocaine. Both ideas are creative, don’t you agree, and each, in its way, just slightly old-fashioned. Laura N. from Brooklyn would “give it a cookie”. I think we can all agree that she’s toast.

And what about you? Imagine that you’re there, in the savanna, staring into those amber eyes. Would you run, readers? Would you understand that this is the greatest moment of your soon-to-be-ended-in-horrible-fashion life?

It’s such an evocative question and really, I think the answer tells you more about a person than you’d like to know. But if you’re curious to learn how to really fight a lion, check out my new story, and stay out of the jungle, my darlings. Not all of us are equipped to brawl with the beast.

in Crime Fiction, Jasmine Schwartz | Read full story · | Comments { 1 }

Nonna Pessia

If one more person says they’re surprised when they discover that I have a living grandmother, I swear to god I’ll punch them in the face.

Nonna Pessia came to visit me yesterday. It was a real honor because the rumor is that she’s more loaded than anyone in the family.

“Yasmine,” she said before her gloves had come off. “Who is representing you?”

“An associate of Charles Endicott’s,” I told her.

“Get rid of him,” she said. “Call Stanley.”

“He’s dead, Nonna,” I reminded her.

“Then call Myron.”

“Dead,” I said.

She exhaled from exasperation.

“You are going to end up in prison, Yasmine. This is very serious. Who is this man in the kitchen?”

“That’s just Mark. He’s renovating the bedroom. Supposedly.”

Mark approached my grandmother but she put her hand up to stop him.

“I stay out of Chelsea,” she hissed to me. “Why does he have to come to the Upper East Side?”

“Please, Nonna. I won’t go to jail. Anyway the real issue is Daddy. He’s going to marry that horrible woman. Can’t you talk to him?”

“We haven’t spoken for twelve years,” she said. “I’m not sure this is a good enough reason to start now.”

“Oh forget it,” I said. “Let’s just go to lunch.”

You see? There’s nothing as frustrating and disappointing and complicated as family. You can wish you were adopted all you want, but in the end, if you have a grandmother who can get a table at Jean Georges just by walking in, then order the foie gras brule and count your blessings.

in Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, Gay Men, Jasmine's Father, Mark | Read full story · | Comments { 0 }