1.
I lay on my back on the forest floor, in the exact place they first arrived seven years ago. Aching from the hike and my gnawing hunger, I stretch my body into a five-point star and stare through the trees at the sky. As the air grows cold and the
It’s almost always windy at the beach and most mornings on my walk, I see a man, about my age, flying a kite (a red and gold Chinese dragon, flapping, dipping and divebombing in the wind). Ada, when she was little, would have gone nuts over a kite
Whereas the average person has countless pics of mom – mom as backdrop to a pouting infant, mom as prop girl lighting a birthday candle, mom as technician for a band of piñata-teers – the RF has but one photograph of Mama: a crinkled sepia
I’ve found it takes longer and longer to reload that buckshot after that first crack echoes through the air. I hear it as a muffled buzz through my hearing aid and see the birds scatter across the barnyard in a whir of feathers, but sometimes the
Tom invited Becky over to his apartment to have a beer and watch TV. Things had been going well until they started arguing about a fake baby on the television.
All Tom said was, “So fake.”
Becky moved away from his embrace. “Are you serious? You’re
Prominent Moth
Dimitris offers you a bite of tree, his token of affection. His medium-sized, brownish torso seems a shorter chopped-off version of that source, but of course he can walk away from less subtle approaches. When disturbed, he freezes in
The helmet lays in the middle of the snow plow scored street, its plastic cracked and bruised like a piece of fruit dropped from an elevation. The silence of an experiment gone wrong, vapors diffusing, pulling away all the oxygen.
In the store, two
When I say Mary came along, I opened the door because she was knocking softly. I had never seen her before. She said “I’m Mary”. “Hey Mary, nice to meet you and… are you okay?” I said so unused to seeing humans in the flesh.
The voice felt
I don’t know how I talked Mom into letting me go over that Friday evening–I’d never been before– but I was going to Tilda’s, walking across the drive-in as it was growing dark, dust rising and gravel crunching beneath my feet. I ran part of
Q: They tell me you’re writing a book?
A: Liars. Knaves.
Q. Can you explain for our viewers what your new book is about?
A: You are the one who writes and is written.
Everything seemed in place: the random café, the silent street, the stranger passing, the coffee left untasted. The knock at the door first produced an empty hallway, but Donovan expected that, just as he expected a second knock, the stranger’s return,
“To say that Wallace took The Drama of the Gifted Child to heart is to put it very mildly indeed. He returned to it over and over again; his notes were made at many different times, in wildly differing sizes and styles of penmanship,
The cab driver wouldn’t drop her where she’d asked to go. Not so proper a lady, and not at this time of night. When she addressed the matter in his native Marathi, however, and pulled from her wallet a bill that she folded into a crude jet shape
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