Steven Neal

The Stockbroker - 18 Can I get you anythin else? He turned from the window. Say, do you have a boyfriend?, he said. I don’t. Well, what would you say if I asked you out. Are you askin me out. I’m just asking what you would say. Well that there is your problem. What is. They call it E-G-O. He nodded. So. Can I get you anything else? One more just like I had. To go, please. She was walking away when the couple came in from the parkinglot. They had their hands all over one another still and the waitstaff and customers alike started clapping and some whistling and he put his hands together and clapped quietly in the booth and he sat there for some time eyeing the waitress making her rounds, until the busboy brought over his plastic bag of food. He paid at the cashier. He went outside to the phone booth once more and dialed Wes and hung up again. Through the parkinglot and to the truck he’d come now. Taking up his key, he thought to hold it out against the driverdoor and walk the key against the side of the cab. He pocketed the key and kicked the jumble of cans and went on. It was late morning by now. At the streetcorner he handed the bag of food over to the crossdresser, regarding him while he tucked his cardboard sign beneath his arm. He followed him down the knoll and below the underpass where he laid his sign in the dirt and sat down on top of it. Cars whirred overhead. Morris sat down across from him and eyed the man. From the bag he reached out the styrofoam container. He opened it and reached out the baggie of plasticware and with his teeth tore it open and turned the contents over into the cover side of the container and he took up the salt and pepper packets and tore the tops back also with his teeth and emptied their contents onto the eggs. He looked into the bag. No hotsauce. Morris shrugged. He watched the man eat. He ate laboriously and continually. He coughed up the food a few times but kept on until there wasn’t a scrap remained in the greased container. You want any water, Morris, he said. He shook his head and the other went to where he had a sleepingsack rolled away in the corner and he took from behind it a Nalgene bottle and took a drink. You sure, Morris, he said. I’m good, Leslie. Really I’m good. He walked back over and sat again on top of the cardboard sign. You don’t look like you’re good. He studied Morris. What has it been three years. Five. Five. Well, I guess it does feel like five. He nodded. Feels more like ten to tell you the truth. He laughed and then coughed up again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. You still over there in Towerville? I am. Except I don’t know for how much longer. You know what I do and I can do it for other people just fine but I can’t seem to hold on to my own. Well. You could come back and do this again. Problem solved.

The Stockbroker - 17 He kept on along Upson and turned off onto the main thoroughfare toward town and when he came to the highway he walked along the barditch. At the time that he reached the bridge he looked over at the encampment below and there was a young girl bathing with a bar of soap in the river. There were others with small coal drums cooking breakfast and others passed out on ragged bedrolls and panels of cardboard and still others sleeping right on top of the dirt. He kept on. At the offramp he left the highway and at the streetlight he stopped and spoke with a crossdresser stood there with a Will Work For Food sign. He shook the crossdresser’s hand. Afterward he went on across the intersection and walked through the parkinglot to the diner. He was seated and put his order in and then he went over to the cashier and took out the hundred dollar bill. I’ll have a newspaper. She looked at him for a second and handed him the paper and then punched open the register and got him his change. He went on outside to the payphone with the paper under his arm and he fingered a quarter out of the bills and coins in his palm and put the rest of the money away in his pocket and dialed and listened to Wes’s recording and then hung up. When he came back inside he sat down again in the booth. His breakfast and coffee were already on the table. He put up his hand for the waitress and she came by. Hotsauce, please, he said. You alright, sir? Cause you don’t look alright. I’m alright. She returned a minute later with the hotsauce and a couple of aspirin. I’ll leave these for you. He nodded and took the aspirin, drinking down the tumbler full of water. The waitress returned and refilled his glass. Thanks, he said. I been there, she said, and went. He looked at his breakfast and began dotting the two eggeyes with hotsauce and he ate the eggs without stopping and took up the toast and sopped up what was left and finished the bread. He ate the bacon last. Then he opened the paper and took up the coffee. He turned to the metro section and drank. By the time they turned over the rush he had perused through the whole of the paper and had been sitting stationary and looking out the window for some time. He was watching now folks getting in and out of their trucks, appearing and disappearing out of the parkinglot by way of the interstate. He watched a young couple stepping out of a truck of which its bumper was bedecked with cans hanging from strings and on the rear window was traced Just Married in white polish. He could see along her hemline where the other had set his hands and was helping her down. He closed the cardoor and held her now against the truck. He rubbed her body and her breasts and she nudged him coyly away and kissed him on the mouth and smiled at him with gleaming white teeth.

The Stockbroker - 16 Jan 8, 2025 by M. Steven Neal They dressed and came out into the main room where Ricky was already done packing the narcotics in a metal storage trunk. He hauled it up and they followed him out to the back. The boy had cleared away the dirt from over the dugout and he unlocked and opened the doorhatch and got down inside and took one end of the trunk from Ricky and then they both disappeared underground for a few moments before they appeared again, Ricky followed by the boy. Ricky lowered the hatch and the boy handed him the key and he locked it. They all turned to see the roof catch fire. I caint find Ricky Jr., Justine. And where the hell is Wes. He went back inside and the boy began shoveling dirt back over the hatch and Morris and Justine went around to the front and watched the house. The neighbors had gathered. Morris called for the dog still on the porch and it raised its head and lingered over. He saw the newboy come around now but he kept walking and turned out of the crowd onto Upson toward Niles. Ricky came out the front door a few minutes later holding Ricky Jr. in his arms. He went over and set him down beside Morris. Jon, hold onto him alright. Morris took the child’s hand. Ricky went back inside once more and by the time he’d come out the whole of the roof was near collapse. Held in his arms were a stack of photo albums and he labored off the front porch coughing and he walked over and stood beside Ricky Junior. Morris let go the child’s hand. It had a fresh lighter burn on it the color of ash. Don’t stick around for this, Jon. He nudged him along and Morris nodded and nodded to Justine. As he stepped from the curb he could hear the sirens. He had walked along Upson in the direction of town and toward the end of the road he passed the house. The old man was sitting in a spared corner on the still wrecked porch, looking out into nothing in a glaucomic haze. Mr. Tilden. The old man didn’t look at him. Neither did he move. Morris stood there for another moment and then kept on. Hold up, boy, he said. He doubled back the several feet he had gone and said again: Mr. Tilden. His watery eyes scanning what was in front of him. It’s you, Jon Morris, aint it?, he said. It is, sir. Well, you bring the trouble with you. He didn’t say any thing. The sirens now getting closer. He looked over at the porch. I sure am sorry about what happened. Well. At least you was drivin a Mercedes, Jon. How come you left it so. I sent you the money. The old man told him that all things are an act of God. And that some things are best left as they were. The door opened then and his daughter came out and handed him a tray holding a coffee and a sweetroll. She looked at Morris before she returned inside. It’s for her, Jon. It’s all for her. He said goodbye to the old man and he waved but the old man didn’t wave back. Godspeed, he said.

Everyday rush, easy to miss things. ‘The Stockbroker - 15’ doesn’t. Morris, after a rough night, ends up untangling a hose for an old man. A simple thing, but maybe not. What happens when he’s back at Wes’s place? Do kind little acts mean anything, determine who we are? Check out the new ‘The Stockbroker’ serial. #fiction #writer #writing #newpost

So pleased to share that my story ‘Training Wheels’ will be included in the winter issue of @atlanticnemag, releasing on Monday, Jan. 8. Here’s a sneak peek! #shortstory #author #fiction #LitMag

In "The Stockbroker-14," Morris is lost in contemplation when he arrives back at the bungalow. His attention is absorbed by the surroundings, but this quiet focus is abruptly interrupted by the blare of police sirens and an officer’s command. Is it possible for Morris to discover the quietude he seeks, or is he on the verge of unexpected complications? #AuthorLife #AmWriting #WriterCommunity #MustRead #NewRelease #WritingCommunity #WritingWednesday Click the link in my bio!

In this installment of “The Stockbroker”, Morris’s buddy pushes him toward life’s baser temptations, hoping it might drown his melancholy. Yet Morris remains anchored, drawn back by the ghost of a girl long gone but never forgotten. #AuthorLife #AmWriting #WriterCommunity #MustRead #NewRelease #WritersOfInstagram #AuthorsofInstagram #WritingCommunity #WritingWednesday Click the link in my bio to read this serial!

#AmWriting #WritersLife #WriterCommunity #WritingInspiration #AuthorLife #WritersOfInstagram #WritingProcess #FictionFriday #Storytelling #CreativeWriting #AuthorsJourney

In “The Stockbroker - 12”, Morris and Wes reunite to spend their evening at the Rose. Upon arriving, they’re welcomed by some recognizable faces, including their beloved waitress, Alicia. Given the Rose’s distinctive allure and the duo’s comfort with this setting, one wonders if this is merely the start of their evening escapades or if there’s a deeper twist awaiting them. #AuthorLife #AmWriting #WriterCommunity #MustRead #NewRelease #WritersOfInstagram #AuthorsofInstagram #WritingCommunity #plottwist Click the link in my bio to read this serial!

In Stockbroker 11, we follow Morris as he reconnects with old but familiar friends. How will these friends help Morris in his journey of self-discovery? You can catch up on the Stockbroker serial by clicking the link in my bio.

Set in Austin Texas, "The Stockbroker" follows Morris as he struggles with his career, drugs, and the death of his girlfriend. But when Morris takes to the trails just beyond the city, he revisits his old neighborhood to face his regrets. Read parts 1-10 using the link in my bio.

This week we start to learn more about Morris's history. He interacts with potentially dangerous but familiar acquaintances. Will these new characters lead Morris down a dark path? Click the link in my bio to read it! #writing #AuthorsOfTwitter #writerscommunity #Creative

❤️👏TNS After Hours Red Room Reading Series last Friday. #nycwriters #nyccreative #writer #writerlife #creativewriting #writingevent #NYC #kgbbar

I'm looking forward to taking part in @newschoolwriting Reading Series at @kgbbarredroom this Friday night at 7pm! #thenewschool #readingseries #kgbbar #newyork #newyorkauthors

Check out the link in my bio to learn about The Writer’s Rock Annual Review. If you’ve been keeping up with "The Stockbroker," you’ll find a familiar character in this year’s edition😀 #author #creativewriting #creativewriter #writer #thewritersrock #create #writingwednesday

I'm excited to have begun a new adventure as a student @thenewschool creative writing program. @newschoolwriting #nswriters #nswrites #thenewschool #mfacreativewriting