Pull the weeds, I hear my landlady say. She likes to give strict instructions to her man, so much so that I’ve been inspecting him from my kitchen window to see if I can figure out if he is a submissive. He is no hunk but there seems to be something about their relationship that implies this. To explain, I live below the pair of them, and they have a habit of swarming all over the vast garden that
I never see her anymore, but I remember what she said. We were near the end of our second date, standing at a crosswalk. On our first date, we’d been on our best behavior, so I’d postponed any conclusions. We’d both been divorced for over a year. According to Jill, the friend who got us together, she’d given up praying soon after her divorce. Early in the first date she told me
Faces round a fire call back spinning wheels, pull up that throbbing glow, the hiss of dripping sulphur on a grade of crush run gravel.
Fourth of July and they thought it’d be a kick to stick pieces of busted lumber to the back of my bicycle, duct-taped road flares branching off by the baker’s dozen, all of them gathered behind me as I placed my foot on the pedal, striking black tips with
I don’t remember how old I was. I think it was the summer between fifth and sixth grades. I don’t remember Tony going to Erwine Middle School, although there was a boy there with dark hair and a big nose who carried a briefcase to class and reminded me of Tony. Mostly, I remember Tony because of his sister, Angel. She was the girl my brothers got caught playing doctor with. I’d caught them
I took myself to the outdoor shopping center when the urges got really bad. The unwelcoming way they made you slide your car into a spot was just the beginning. Women wearing pastel polo shirts handed out samplers that scorched my heart. Men with ex-military tattoos stopped at kiosks to touch such meaningless things. Children with sneakers that cost as much as my monthly student loan payment
The macabre scene looked like a Halloween prank to the toll taker. Then she saw the blood. – St. Petersburg Times, 2005
Manny is crossing 34th Street, making a list of things to pay for—flowers, music, dress, food, church—when Ernie’s car hits him, and his body smashes into the windshield, his head and shoulders bursting through the passenger side.
Ernie thinks Manny fell from the sky,
I received The World’s Biggest Piece of Shit Award in 1990. My name was written on the award in fancy calligraphy. In front of the whole class, Mrs. Kerris, our English teacher, handed me the award. She wasn’t worried about getting fired, as she was retiring anyway. Her thing was she was pissed that I got stoned before her classes. I mean, she was teaching us important stuff about the happy
Theo sat in the tiny dining room next to the kitchen, trying to concentrate on a book he wanted to read for a long time now. In lieu of a dining set, there was a burgundy recliner and a small round table that once sat in the breakfast nook. His twenty-six year old daughter, Magda, had dragged the large dining room table into the kitchen because of the great light from the bay windows. He heard her
It was their own damn fault for daytime drinking. You don’t wave wads of cash around in front of a woman who can’t afford to buy the drug that keeps her alive and not expect her to grab it as fast as she can.
The first couple she stole from was so nice. Ali and Amina from Kazakhstan. Marnie would never forget them. They were inexperienced travelers, very confused about US dollars. Marnie relaxed
The dining room, electric with the shifting of wool and the static that hums over the tables in the form of speculation and vibrating conversation, leans towards the important ones as they enter and take their seats at the tables.
As usual, we’ve been instructed on invisibility, but it is difficult not to linger. I take inordinate amounts of time refilling the coffee cups, clearing plates, and
Wayne knows that the Atlanta-Fulton Public Library downtown opens at 10 a.m. on Tuesday-Saturday and never one minute earlier, not even when it’s raining and there are a dozen plus-citizens waiting to get inside. The building is eight stories, cube-shaped, neutral-toned. He’s read up on the architecture: it’s known as Brutalist, taken from the French words beton brut, or “raw concrete.”
Another head poked through the small opening in the door. This time it belonged to Rory, the floppy-haired kid from next door. He was wearing a Santa hat and didn’t say anything to James, who lay on the bed with his hands behind his head and his eyes up at the ceiling. He just wanted to get a look.
Everyone wanted to get a look. All afternoon, heads had been popping in and out of the room,
The hospital where Petra was born, her mother would later tell her, ran out of drugs the week of her birthday, so her mother screamed for hours, and her father, at work filing papers, swore he could hear the shrieks echoing across the entire city. Petra didn’t know whether to believe her mother about the shortage of drugs, or if she made up the negligence, another piece of evidence in her mother’s
- Soupmann is Superman’s third cousin twice removed. Unlike his relative, Soupmann set his priorities logically and succinctly. He fights for truth and justice, and sometimes for truth and the American way, and sometimes for justice and the American way, but not for all three at once. Otherwise, he’d be stretching too thin. He goes into a phone booth and turns into chicken soup. He smothers
Her death is sudden, so there is no time to prepare—no protracted sickness. A stroke: Henry wakes to find her dead beside him, stiff and cool.
You have never met Elaine. You have only seen pictures: the one on his desk with the lacquered frame, and the wedding picture on the hall table that one time you went to their house, when Elaine was visiting their son in college. I imagine you encountering