I’m finishing a short story collection called Open Windows: of Worlds and Men. It’s deep and true and, at times, even beautiful.
Right now, it’s sitting on an editor’s desk with an amazing publisher. I can’t say who just yet, but as soon as I get the green light, this Substack is where I’ll let everyone know.
In the meantime, I’ll be sharing updates, early excerpts, and behind-the-scenes reflections here first.
Supporters also get access to my other work—essays, stories, memories, and more.
If “Homecoming” hit you, or if you just want to see where this all goes, subscribe below so I can reach out directly. You’ll be the first to know when the book officially finds its home.
—C.B.
P.S.—here’s a little bonus flash fiction just for you:
Milk
I held an aged ten-dollar bill between us. He looked nervously toward the grocery store, teeming with shoppers. This was supposed to be good for him. Independence. Agency.
“Why do we need money for milk?” he said, with the haughty air of a grade-school philosopher.
“Because everything costs something, son,” I said.
“Everything?” he said.
“Everything.”
“We could just take the milk,” he said.
“Like stealing?” I said.
“If that’s what you want to call it,” he said.
“It’s not what I call it,” I said. “It’s what the dictionary calls it.” I took a steadying breath, as that’s what I’d been told good fathers do. “Then you’d pay for it with time instead of money—time spent in jail. Get the milk?”
I urged the greasy bill closer.
He looked out the window.
“We could change that law,” he said.
“Then everyone would have to pay for the milk. Safety. Society. Stability. Milk,” I said. He seemed to be thinking, at least. I lowered my outstretched hand, feeling tired and like a failure in more ways than one.
“We could burn it all down. Start over,” he whispered out the window.
My voice came out louder than I’d expected and we both jumped.
“What in the hell are they teaching you at that school of yours?!” I said.
“That your generation broke the world,” he said. “That capitalism is built on theft and oppression. That—”
I cut him off.
“When are you going to start thinking for yourself? You’re twenty-two years old, Danny!” I said. I got out and slammed the car door behind me hard enough that the glass of the half-rolled-down window rattled in its frame. I held the green paper bill between us like a crumpled shield. “Don’t worry, Danny. I’ll get the damned milk!” I said.
I stormed off toward the sliding glass doors—for the first time in my life, I empathized with all those stories of fathers who went to grab a gallon of milk—and never came back.