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Charles Presti

Goodreads Author

Born

in Cleveland, Ohio, The United States

Website

https://www.charlespresti.com

Genre

Historical Fiction, Young Adult, Memoir

Influences

J.K. Rowling Harper Lee Mark Twain ...more

Member Since

October 2023

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Charles Presti, emerging from the sun-drenched shores of Pensacola, Florida, crafts narratives that echo with the richness of his varied life. His journey from a USF College of Medicine graduate to a storyteller is as unconventional as it is inspiring. Drawing from his days as a physician and informatics specialist, Charles infuses his writing with a rare blend of scientific precision and heartfelt emotion. His debut novel, Covered in Flour, a vivid tapestry of his Italian-American heritage, his experiences in the whirlwind era of the 1960s, and his personal journey as a gay man, has won the 2024 Next Generation Indie Book Award for "First Novel under 50,000 words." These elements converge to create stories that not only entertain but reson ...more

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Can you tell us a two-sentence horror story?

Charles Presti As a new student in my high school, I let out an audible fart then impulsively exclaimed "Excuse me!" to the stunned silence of the classroom. I shran…moreAs a new student in my high school, I let out an audible fart then impulsively exclaimed "Excuse me!" to the stunned silence of the classroom. I shrank in my chair, knowing my new classmates wouldn't soon forget my accidental gaffe.(less)

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Charles Presti Full Story: BONDO, DUCT TAPE, CHEWING GUM AND STRING

Written By Chuck Presti

Potty humor is a comedic niche of its own. Often viewed as the unsophistica Full Story: BONDO, DUCT TAPE, CHEWING GUM AND STRING

Written By Chuck Presti

Potty humor is a comedic niche of its own. Often viewed as the unsophisticated cousin in the family of jokes, gas, when used sparingly, can lend a funny note. That said, many of us carry one especially amusing story. Here is mine.

In my bumbling adolescence, I often feel like I'm barely holding things together, my sense of self pieced together with Bondo, duct tape, chewing gum, and string - all metaphorical references to the makeshift coping fixes I use just to get through each day. Adolescence, akin to a purgatory phase in life, is filled with vulnerability and hardship and seems to mirror the principles of my Catholic upbringing.
Every day is an act of balancing these makeshift means; it's as though my inner struggles materialize into stark, life-or-death moments. A classic cliché replays in my head: a perilous situation where I find myself hanging precariously from the edge of a skyscraper. My world literally becomes black and white. My fingers grip the cold, slick edge, and with each passing second, my strength wanes, and my grip loosens. The camera zooms in on my desperate eyes, chockful of fear and determination, and then pans down to the dizzying drop below - a jammed highway with buses and vintage cars, headlights ablaze, blowing their horns for no apparent reason.
Suddenly, the wind howls - my hand slips, and I start to fall, in slow motion of course, reaching out for anything to hold onto. Instantly, from above, another hand shoots down, grabbing my wrist just in the nick of time. The camera focuses on the two hands locked together, the savior's grip firm and secure. From the sky, a swelling score signifies the emotional climax of the rescue.
And then, as the world seems to slip away beneath me, a familiar, distant sound tugs at the edge of my consciousness.
"Carl wake up, you'll be late for school," Mom announces while knocking on my bedroom door.
"Ok. Be ready in a few, "I whisper, still half of me hanging for dear life and the other half with pillow head. Even as the dream's grip loosens, a residue of fear clings to me, the coldness of the skyscraper's edge still lingering on my fingertips. I lie there a moment longer, heart pounding, as the echoes of the dream blend with the dull, familiar sounds of the waking world.
"Ugh," I think to myself, "I hate my life." It's been two months since we moved from the Midwest to Southern Florida. Starting 10th grade at a new school is bad enough, but did we have to move into a retirement condo, a geriatric prison for anyone over the age of 200? It didn't help that Jaws hit the theaters just as we plunged into town - because being the new kid wasn't scary enough, now I have man-eating sharks swimming through my head. "Somebody just shoot me," the spontaneous yet familiar catchphrase from my inner voice, the vocal machine with no filter, which somehow I command.
My resistance was fierce from the start. The entire car ride to our new 'home' was a storm of protest. Since arriving, I've been a shadow in the corner of my bedroom, my only solace in the letters I write to friends left behind. My letters to old friends fill whole notebooks - those pages are my new confidantes. This transition, a seismic shift in my young life, echoes painfully. I was part of a tight group of friends who were my chosen family. I miss my friends and the times spent together, laughing, dancing, and getting into mischief. "It's such a bummer being here without them," I thought as I flipped through the pages of my notebook. My hometown has my heart.
In school, I'm a ghost drifting through the halls, eyes cast down, guarding my solitude against this unfamiliar reality. The perennial new kid at school, a title as needless as the pet rocks everyone is carrying around. Academics, though, offer a welcome refuge. There, in the quiet company of textbooks and essays, I find a strange sort of peace, a productive denial of the world outside.
"Carl, let's go!" Mom's voice cuts through my reverie, pulling me back to the present. We head out, making our way to Florence High School in Mom's AMC Pacer, which still holds a new car smell, where my first encounter of the day awaits: English with Ms. Purdue. Her reputation precedes her – demanding, austere, a staunch believer in the power of education, though her intensity often falls on indifferent ears.
Mom drops me off at Florence High, and I make a beeline for my English class. As I settle into my seat, the bell pierces the morning buzz of chatter and laughter – an ambiance from which I've always felt detached. Ms. Purdue's command slices through the noise, "Please pass your assignments to the front." Silence descends, the air thick with the collective guilt of unprepared classmates. I bend down, reaching into the shelf under my seat for my meticulously completed work. At precisely that moment, amid the quiet where you could hear the proverbial pin drop, an unexpected piercing gust is airborne – a mortifying betrayal by my own body. I'm sure the nearly deaf janitor in the hallway heard this one. The room freezes, and time suspends.
"Excuse me," I mumble instinctively, sealing my fate. If only silence had been my shield. But no, my confession hangs in the air.
Ms. Purdue, usually the model of composure, tries to maintain order. A slight twitch of her shoulders begins, an involuntary shrug she tries to stifle. Her eyes, usually stern, betray her struggle as the corners twitch with a suppressed smile. The room watches in horror and fascination as her composure crumbles. The shoulder twitches grow into a gentle quake, her efforts to contain the laughter visibly failing. Then, without warning, it bursts forth – a resounding, infectious belly laugh that fills the room. The rigid atmosphere shatters as her warm and unrestrained laughter cascades through the classroom, inviting a ripple of relief and hesitant chuckles from the rest of the room. For a moment, the usual barriers dissolve, and the room unites in an unexpected camaraderie, all thanks to an uncontrollable laugh. As the laughter crescendos in that tiny classroom, I silently applaud myself for having the foresight to avoid anything spicy or fragrance-producing in my diet last night.
And there, in that endless moment, the Bondo cracks and my composure comes unstrung. I feel my cheeks burn and I begin to shrink, a diminished version of myself, wishing to disappear into the seams of my seat. As laughter ricochets off the walls, I find myself back on the edge of that skyscraper, the ground below just as unforgiving as the eyes of my classmates. The fall in my dream, that terrifying plunge into the abyss, suddenly doesn't feel so different from this moment. Both are falls, one from a building, the other from grace in the eyes of my classmates.
And just as in my dream, where a hand reached out to save me at the last second, I now find myself longing for a similar salvation. A friendly glance, a kind word, any sign that this fall might not be the end. But in my mind the laughter continues, echoing off the classroom walls, a stark reminder that sometimes, in life as in dreams, the rescue we hope for doesn't always come.
This tragicomedy feels endless, though, in time, the acute stings will fade to a duller memory. I guess in the grand scheme of things, these awkward moments just make for amusing stories down the road. ...more
Mar 03, 2024 12:38PM

If you could travel to any fictional book world, where would you go and what would you do there?

Charles Presti Homage to Dr. Seuss:

If I must pick a place where I'd truly feel grand,
I'd go straight to the lands of the Truffula sand.
With the Once-ler away and the…moreHomage to Dr. Seuss:

If I must pick a place where I'd truly feel grand,
I'd go straight to the lands of the Truffula sand.
With the Once-ler away and the Lorax in sight,
I'd help plant new Truffula Trees, making everything right.

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Charles Presti’s books

Average rating: 4.08 · 38 ratings · 17 reviews · 4 distinct works • Similar authors

	Covered in Flour: 1968: A Young Boy's Perspective on School, Family, and Changing Times 4.08 avg rating — 38 ratings — published 2023 — 4 editions	Error rating book. Refresh and try again. Rate this book Clear rating 1 of 5 stars 2 of 5 stars 3 of 5 stars 4 of 5 stars 5 of 5 stars
	The Silent Song of Harpo: Where Silence Speaks Volumes 0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings	Error rating book. Refresh and try again. Rate this book Clear rating 1 of 5 stars 2 of 5 stars 3 of 5 stars 4 of 5 stars 5 of 5 stars
	A Star, a Storm, and a Chariot 0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings	Error rating book. Refresh and try again. Rate this book Clear rating 1 of 5 stars 2 of 5 stars 3 of 5 stars 4 of 5 stars 5 of 5 stars
	Zoe Gets a Visitor 0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings	Error rating book. Refresh and try again. Rate this book Clear rating 1 of 5 stars 2 of 5 stars 3 of 5 stars 4 of 5 stars 5 of 5 stars

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Charles Presti's Blog

"Covered in Flour" Giveaway

I'm thrilled to connect with you all here and even more excited to announce that I'm giving away 100 Kindle copies of my new coming-of-age novel "Covered in Flour."

Set in 1960s suburbia, "Covered in Flour" follows one remarkable year in the life of 8-year-old Carl Pozzi. When his teacher introduces lessons about prejudice and injustice, Carl begins questioning long-held beliefs about family and s Read more of this blog post »

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Published on October 31, 2023 15:33

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Charles Presti rated a book it was amazing Library of Souls (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #3) by Ransom Riggs	Error rating book. Refresh and try again. Rate this book Clear rating 1 of 5 stars 2 of 5 stars 3 of 5 stars 4 of 5 stars 5 of 5 stars
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Charles Presti rated a book it was amazing On Death and Dying: What the Dying Have to Teach Doctors, Nurses, Clergy and Their Own Families by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross	Error rating book. Refresh and try again. Rate this book Clear rating 1 of 5 stars 2 of 5 stars 3 of 5 stars 4 of 5 stars 5 of 5 stars
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Charles Presti rated a book it was amazing The Wheel of Life: A Memoir of Living and Dying (An Inspiring Autobiography) by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross	Error rating book. Refresh and try again. Rate this book Clear rating 1 of 5 stars 2 of 5 stars 3 of 5 stars 4 of 5 stars 5 of 5 stars
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