Siegfried Haug

By Siegfried Haug I am reading a segment from my latest book, BAD SLEEP, a suspense novel set in Key West, Florida. The scene involves a couple of suspicious men and a fair amount of mayhem for my two main characters, Sue and Rosie. Sue looked frantically around the restaurant for a place to hide […]

by Siegfried Haug “Looks like gout to me,” Herman, my doctor, says. I had gingerly, very gingerly, pulled down my sock for him. “I’ll give you some prednisone. Start with 60 milligrams. Then you titrate.” I was in pain and uncharacteristically compliant. Not being a pharmacology devotee, I opt for a supplementary alternative addition: Four

by Siegfried Haug “Name?” Shirley asks. Shirley knows my name. We’ve been hanging out for years at various small-town functions: lunch at the Council for Aging, Greenwood Music Camp . . . today, though is voting-day as she flips through our list of registered voters. All eight pages of it, and she has a hard

by Siegfried Haug The man squints and takes his cigarette out of his mouth. It is a signal for his neighbor to lean in a bit closer. The bar spills onto the sidewalk, steps away from our door. “Gatino.” I can see the lips forming the word. Kitten. Both men hold a morning-glass of Vermentino

by Siegfried Haug “Your Manchurian ancestors,” my grandmother said, “when they were lucky enough to come across a flock of turkeys were overjoyed. Positively overjoyed.” She looked up from stirring her pot. It never occurred to me — towheaded southern German farm boy — to question her sketchy family tree. She wiped long-fingered hands on

by Siegfried Haug Many people have asked me how I came to invent the now omni-present Good-Times-Watch. Truth be told, it was a fluke. As I look back I can see a confluence of circumstantial happenstances – a veritable conspiracy of trivia – affording me that breakthrough in mind-technology: the harnessing of good-time-power. So, in

by Siegfried Haug Tammy, the waitress, says: “She is such a dear.” I know whom she is talking about: the diminutive lady in an Icelandic sweater and matching hat. She eats breakfast at Ms. Flo’s every time I am there. “Lydia,” I believe, the staff calls her; the “girls” slip into the booth to write