A country grows, waters its deserts, raises its children, cultivates trees, constructs cities, opens schools, equips hospitals, defends its borders, builds skyscrapers, programs its computers, fights a necessary war, accepts immigrants, starts businesses,
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
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
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,
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
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
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,
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
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
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.
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
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,
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
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.
- 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 the bad guys and nourishes the victims. Despite the soup being chicken, Soupmann is not Jewish. He has two Ns at the end of his name. He’s not even human. He’s out of this world. He is a Kryptonian, and the soup is fluorescent-green. 10% kryptonite and 90% secret ingredients. No one knows how it tastes, because whoever tasted it is either dead or turned mum with awe.