My story about an aging boxer “Champion Of The World,” published in AETHLON in 2018, is reprinted in the Olympic World Library in Lausanne, Switzerland.
Read: Champion of the World (Click View.)
NEWS:
from SUMMARY REPORT TO THE COMMITTEE
– excerpt from fiction published in Overland, “False Documents” issue, 2018 
Example F:
TIME FLIES, MONEY GOES FAST
– 9 marbleized covered notebooks taped together in packs of three (numbered 4, 5, 6, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18), total number unknown, dated by month 1983 to 1985, a story about the life of a New York City taxi driver on and off the job
Note: These notebooks are all dialogue; conversations between drivers and their fares, and among themselves and others. There is no description.
Excerpt:
“That day I made $450.”
“Every day you make that much?”
“No, just that day. When I made $450.”
“I got to get me a cab license.”
“And I should have made $249 more.”
“You made $450 and someone beat you out of $249.”
“$249 more. It was that much more to Washington. I didn’t know it.”
“You went all the way down to Washington?”
“Yep. $749 round trip to Washington. That’s by the book, but I didn’t have it on me at the time so I didn’t know.”
“You told me you made $450.”
“That day I did.”
“And the trip to Washington was $749.”
“That’s right, by the book. But I didn’t have it on me.”
“It don’t add up. $450 and $249 ain’t $749.”
“I made $500 that day.”
“You said you made $450?”
“He’s got so many lives he don’t even remember what he told us two minutes ago. Yesterday he said he was taking college classes.”
“Yesterday I was taking college classes.”
“Just yesterday or today too?”
“Just yesterday. I don’t take them every day.”
NEWS:
My novelette “The Luckier I Get” is out at AETHLON. Pages 201-241.
NEWS:
My story “Outline of an Incident” will be published in Fabula Argentea in January.
D.B. Cooper is revealed!
Now up here: https://fabulaargentea.com/index.php/article/outline-of-an-incident-by-paul-perilli/
NEWS:
My story “Your Personal Story” is forthcoming in Unlikely Stories.
Now up here:
WORD OF THE DAY
– published in Thema’s “There’s a Word for That” issue (2018) 
gauche\gohsh\adjective
- Lacking social grace, sensitivity, or acuteness; awkward, crude; tactless.
If the word fits, wear it. And I wear this one well. A turn in the mirror, I see it sets on me like a fine tailored suit from Brooks Brothers. Ho yeah, you the gauche man! It’s all over me. Just ask my wife, Geraldine. A little snicker from her when she comes into my studio and I tell her the word of the day I’m working on. Lacking social grace. Check. Awkward. Check. Crude. Check. I traced the word’s origins back to the gaucho, those mythic rough riders of the South American pampas that Borges wrote about in his early stories “Streetcorner Man” and “The Life of Tadeo Isidoro Cruz.” Borges liked his gaucho’s marginal, and ready for anything, a knife fight, a shootout. I suppose there’s no doubt gauchos are gauche, insensitive and tactless, hence the logical connection between the two. Most of them anyway; there are always exceptions. Nevertheless, I’m not one of them. The exception, that is. I can see myself riding a horse on the Patagonian grasslands, herding cattle with a lasso or bola, cooking rice, beans, and chunks of beef over a campfire. It seems a better way to spend my days than at a desk. Of course, I’m joking. And also about the relationship between gauche and gaucho. Gaucho has nothing to do with its genealogy. Nothing at all. I digressed again. So back to gauche. Couldn’t it also be a noun, as in, a gauche. I’m a gauche. You’re a gauche. We are gauches. What school do you think that ditty would be associated with? We are. Gauches. We are… One with a tiny enrollment, I’m sure. Maybe one that only accepted gauchos? Where do you go to school? Gauche U. To learn to be a gaucho? For what other reason were you thinking? To be a butler? Now I’m reminded of a long-ago cookout at a big house on the seashore north of Boston. And I mean a big house, twenty, twenty-five rooms, eight or so bathrooms, yadda yadda. The hosts’ son was the husband of a college friend of Geraldine. It was a soft, summer afternoon. Ten or twelve of us sat at a table on the patio eating lobster, clams, and corn-on-the-cob, drinking bottles of beer and gin-and-tonics; out ahead the Atlantic Ocean stretched to the horizon. Our hosts were generous, formal, a touch snobby as their son was, and as we were finishing up the son’s mother, a woman around sixty years old, looked over at me and said: “You were very well trained.” She was being nice, of course. Complimentary, I knew. Yet, I was bemused. Well trained? Did she mean like a poodle or schnauzer? Or like a homo erectus who had just walked out of the State of Nature but was able to manage a knife and fork? I wasn’t sure. But it was apparent to everyone there this working-class stiff, this Gauche U. grad, was anything but “well trained” in the way she meant it. Which brings me back to the definition and the woman’s lack of the social graces she thought she was representative of and assumed I wasn’t or was a wannabe of. And what else must have been apparent to everyone at that table was that woman was as gauche as I, though hers was just a different kind of tactlessness.
Paul Perilli 