Category Archives: Fiction

House Girl

Written on November 3, 2016 at 12:04 am, by

I wasn’t allowed to enter Grace’s room when she was not at home, so I had to make haste.


Written on November 3, 2016 at 12:02 am, by

What would he do for her? He would give her his full attention, tend to her large shape, love her the way she still loved him, as he had first appeared to her.

The Boat Rocker

Written on October 17, 2016 at 12:02 am, by

Don’t smile like that. I’m telling you the truth.

Power Tools

Written on October 3, 2016 at 12:01 am, by

They held hands. They put their feet in the water. I love him, Corey told herself.

Bird (on back)

Written on July 1, 2016 at 12:02 am, by

At daybreak, a bird flew into our bedroom, smacked the wall mirror, and fell on Darla’s back. She slept on.

The Tail of My Heart

Written on July 1, 2016 at 12:01 am, by

You are not going out, he said. You haven’t been out for weeks. People have been in touch with you, he said. Why don’t you see them?


Written on June 15, 2016 at 12:04 am, by

Future of Cities: “Department of Buildings,” said Frank. “We have a complaint. Can we come in?”

Friend of the Indians

Written on June 15, 2016 at 12:03 am, by

The Future of Cities: “There are hundreds, perhaps a thousand empty villages in Spain like your Valdaves: abandoned, then forgotten. I find them new owners...”


Written on June 1, 2016 at 12:04 am, by

He doesn’t talk much about his life in Sri Lanka before the war, only after, as if in 1983 when everything ended for some Sri Lankan Tamils is when his life begins.

I Am A Rock

Written on June 1, 2016 at 12:03 am, by

Whenever the latest woe is me commercial came on hawking the newest painkiller, Mami commanded our attention: “That’s me!”

Shut Your Mouth, Hélène

Written on May 16, 2016 at 12:04 am, by

‘Keep your pecker in your pocket, Paddy,’ Jacques Aubry says, pointing at Mrs. Boyle’s swollen front, ‘and you’ll have less need for marching.’

Rutting Season

Written on May 16, 2016 at 12:03 am, by

He lay in the dark, eyes closed, imagining what Lisa would say when she saw the gun. Would she beg?

Moscow Windows

Written on May 2, 2016 at 12:04 am, by

An unimaginably endless life lay ahead of me, almost frighteningly so. Sometimes, when I thought about it, I became so agitated that I found it difficult to breathe.


Written on May 2, 2016 at 12:03 am, by

“My brave little Marxist,” she will coo, knowing that her own, modest attempts at domestic revolution will as usual come to nothing, and softening in spite of it.

Heat & Light

Written on April 15, 2016 at 12:04 am, by

Fortified with sock tea, he attends his morning group, which is called Steps. This to distinguish it from the afternoon group, which is called Group.


Written on April 15, 2016 at 12:03 am, by

Bulgarians are physical people. I discovered that when I left and came to New York.

Step In

Written on April 1, 2016 at 12:04 am, by

Here’s Jacob, in the grip of incomparable sorrow, being a total jaggoff to his friend. Insert interior monologue: What am I doing? When did I become such a dick?

A Bridged Country

Written on April 1, 2016 at 12:03 am, by

It wasn’t like we hadn’t grown accustomed to male wooers after Pa danced his way out of the picture, but something about Casero, that old bag, pissed me off.


Written on March 15, 2016 at 12:04 am, by

Future of Language: WIFE!—who would not tolerate this complaint of his, who no longer indulged his talking, who could not even bear to look at him.

Snow Signs

Written on March 15, 2016 at 12:03 am, by

Future of Language: Your given signs and pairs: mouth, kisses, red-pink, drink-apple, hurry-go. You have no tenses, only momentum into what’s before you.

The Tale of the Hag

Written on March 1, 2016 at 12:04 am, by

Her feet were brown. She ambled closer. Darling, I’m you, she said. I’m you from the future.

The Vertical Frontier

Written on March 1, 2016 at 12:03 am, by

I could tell that he preferred each and every stranger, even strangers he had not met yet, even strangers he imagined, he preferred those strangers to me.

High Dive

Written on February 15, 2016 at 12:04 am, by

Male staff members at the Grand waded through the myths that surrounded her, enjoying the feeling of being stuck.

The Naked Maja, or La Petit Mort

Written on February 15, 2016 at 12:03 am, by

“You’re delicious,” he says, meaning it, remembering the taste of mango.

Treasure Hunters

Written on February 1, 2016 at 12:04 am, by

So you’re the hotshot diver, he said, if you won’t take any money, let me buy you a hot dog.

Man on the Bus with a Spider on His Back

Written on February 1, 2016 at 12:03 am, by

There's a man on the bus sitting directly in front of you. He has a small brown spider crawling across his red shirt, near his left shoulder blade.

Blue Underworld

Written on January 15, 2016 at 12:04 am, by

Area 51 has been hidden from the American people. For a long time. For their own good.

Square Wave

Written on January 15, 2016 at 12:03 am, by

It seared their eyes. Squinting, they watched the light dilate, divide in six. The rocket fell away, limp, useless, and dark as a new star grew against the storm.


Written on December 15, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

Boundaries of Nations: What a joke American pool is. They play with miniature sticks on a tiny table with a bunch of tiny multicolored balls, a bunch of toy balls, just like between their American legs.

Shakespeare, New Mexico

Written on December 15, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

Boundaries of Nations: With time, I learned to love and master my scenes.

The Men and Women Like Him

Written on December 1, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

A year ago he brought the pox blankets back to the natives after a well-meaning group of illegal tourists stole them away. On return he had a sort of quiet breakdown.


Written on December 1, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

He led her away, down one tunnel, then another. He took her through a passage where the bones were piled so high they had to wriggle over them on their bellies.

The Road to Alpullu

Written on November 16, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

I would examine the black and white photographs of Alpullu’s golden age. In their shadows, I identified the vanished town.


Written on November 16, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

Then high school came, and my brother and I didn’t talk. I was some bitch-majesty in the schoolyard, and whoever said all tomboys are loved has never been a tomboy.

The Way You Look at Me

Written on November 2, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

The husband wrote a letter every single day, sometimes more often. Sometimes, she didn’t open them, or deliberately misread them.

The Things They Carried

Written on November 2, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

They needed a way to keep the fire going until morning—that was another thing they had on their minds.


Written on October 15, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

In the deserted thoroughfares I heard the rumble of thug music, heavy with bass and shot through with electric guitar.


Written on October 15, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

When I met G I knew he’d figure in my life heavily, but I had no idea if our association would be sad or happy, ultimately—and I still don’t know which it will be, ultimately.

Water Butterfly

Written on October 1, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

No one knows when exactly he became the thing I fed upon, the thing whose body works for my body, day and night.

A Bunch of Savages

Written on October 1, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

I have a birthmark above my butt, which is undeniable proof of gypsiness.

Hell Kettle

Written on September 15, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

Boundaries of Nature: Water is always at work. We don’t even know that it’s eating the very ground from under us.

The Last of His Kind

Written on September 15, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

Boundaries of Nature: In books, he has read about boys and animals, how they form a connection, and then the animal dies. And the boy learns something about the harshness of the world.


Written on September 1, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

It’s an open secret that every officer, regardless of rank, is allowed to step in and ask for special consideration for one fuck-up.

The Boy from Petrópolis

Written on September 1, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

I look at his face; the green eyes, the wet mouth. I still feel the dream-softness of his hair under my hands; I feel like a grandmother, like a mother, like a lover.


Written on August 17, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

Now that she had shared a story, the Mother said, he must tell her one of his own. Something that had happened to him. He could tell that she meant something terrible.

The Vase

Written on August 17, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

I didn’t tell my husband, but there was a part of me that could have lived like that: eating cockroaches in the dirt, catching flies.

The Sum of Small Acts

Written on August 3, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

They agreed to unspoken rules. Broken windows were OK. Broken bones were fair game. Graffiti was acceptable, as were rubber bullets and tear gas.

The Boy Jihadi

Written on August 3, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

For a year or more before the six months that we spent preoccupied with our strange visitor, counterterrorism was our spiritual life.

Let Me Explain You

Written on July 15, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

Stavros Stavros was fat and full at the end of the night. All he needed now was to deflower a virgin.

The Americanist

Written on July 15, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

“I’m celebrating my country! Stop hating my freedom, you terrorist.”


Written on June 15, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

Boundaries of Taste: And as I parted my lips and then, later, my legs, watching the last clouds of smoke slip upward, I kept hearing my mother’s voice say, “Jesus is a fire.”

Canticle for Gigi Sauvageau

Written on June 15, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

Boundaries of Taste: Where we saw shape, line, and shadow—a nude—he saw a naked overweight woman.

Our Lady of Zeitoun

Written on June 1, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

Firas rested his head on the back of the sofa, lost in the smoke. He wondered what that meant: a world where you can run wild.

Pretty Is

Written on June 1, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

Only then can you forgive a girl for being pretty: if she’s an idiot or a liar.

The Edge

Written on May 15, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

She studied her face, looking for any change. A bad person. A cheat. A lesbian. A cheating, barren lesbian.

A Boy My Sister Dated in High School

Written on May 15, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

When the boy she was dating hit my sister, it made a sharp cracking sound, just like it does in the movies.

I’ll Die and Be Right There

Written on May 1, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

He told them about the Internet, Steam, Apple, and Microsoft, which were the other names of Satan.

The Baby

Written on May 1, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

“I hope you pathetic little boys are proud of yourselves!” she cried. “I honestly do!”

Only Son

Written on April 15, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

“Some are really crazy,” the nurse said. “Others are just pretending.”

Long Forgotten

Written on April 15, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

He did not want her to think what might possibly be true: that he was going mad.

Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before

Written on April 1, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

Tanya was not surprised to find no one hiding behind the hedges when she looked out her window, but she was disappointed.

In the Dim Below

Written on April 1, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

Our parents were too busy launching bombs over the river to notice missing fingers.


Written on March 16, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

Boundaries of Gender: He smiled, shyly, and then came toward Evan, and although in the red light the scars on Evan’s chest were not visible, Billy found them and kissed them.


Written on March 16, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

Boundaries of Gender: In the early seventies, I began sleeping with a married doctor who wanted to cure homosexuality.

Red Brick

Written on March 2, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

Sam wants to see the Mississippi River at night. He has heard of Tom Sawyer and he looks for him in the faces of boys they pass.

My Dreams Would Seem So Close

Written on March 2, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

“They’re back!” we hissed over our kitchen fences. “Someone’s got to stop them! Something must be done!”

Afternoon Cowboys

Written on February 16, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

“Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum. Straight out of a Western movie.” He handed it over to Brady, who gripped the black rubber handle and ran a finger on the sleek, cold metal barrel.


Written on February 16, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

I met Tracy Pasco in the spring of 1980—in my Pennsylvania hometown, a time of relative optimism and ease.


Written on February 2, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

First there was a little crackle as the pin scratched the record and then the voices would begin to sing or talk and would float into the surrounding inky darkness.

The Infernal

Written on February 2, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

"I consider myself a casualty, one of the many casualties of the war on terror." —Alberto Gonzales

Indigo Gets Married

Written on January 15, 2015 at 12:04 am, by

“I thought you’d get along.” “Why did you think that?” I say. “You do so well with wounded men,” she says.

Other Cities

Written on January 15, 2015 at 12:03 am, by

There were so many places he could have lived, but he lived in the shack so he could dream of his daughter.


Written on December 15, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

Religion in America: If he were superstitious, he would have blamed the monks for cursing him.

Household Gods

Written on December 15, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

Religion in America: The house of the Memory God is filled with junk in piles. It started innocently enough, the way a blizzard starts: a flake here, a flake there.

Festival for the Pigs

Written on December 1, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

Soon a rumor spread through the city that a pig was riding on another pig, circling through the streets, commanding the riot.

Butterflies in November

Written on December 1, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

You’ll barely notice him, he won’t nag or pester you, doesn’t even sing the way other kids do.

Gulf Return

Written on November 17, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

Only for a short time, my mother promised when she left, but the shortness has grown longer, many years, almost twelve, and I am now grown.

Seven Micro-Stories on War (and Only One on Love)

Written on November 17, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

We reported on the two-way radio that the only nut alive asked to surrender.


Written on November 3, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

She hugged me goodbye and left in her boat. I didn’t wait for the boat to grow smaller. I walked into the jungle. I wanted to be something real.

Stand Still

Written on November 3, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

We realize, of course, that one day the force may strike again, leaving one of us breathless at the side of the road.

Ghost House

Written on October 15, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

The stories of the kidnapped always begin the same way.

For What Purpose?

Written on October 1, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

American Empires: I wanted to stop something, everything. I applied for a job in airport security and they placed me here.

Wounding Radius

Written on October 1, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

American Empires: PFC Larry Pierson, a 21-year-old Afghanistan veteran from Vermilion, South Dakota, had made off with four M-16 A2s, six thirty-round magazines of ammo, and two M67 grenades.


Written on September 15, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

I only question my father about these half-truths now, after all these years, because of the nightmares. Because I think about my mother. Because I imagine leaving my husband.

You, Disappearing

Written on September 15, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

The apocalypse was quiet. It had a way about it, a certain charm. It could be called graceful. It was taking a long time.

Our Fathers

Written on September 2, 2014 at 12:06 am, by

I don’t remember the trial, of course, but I’m told there was a stink of hatred in the room that would undo your tie.

A Planet for Rent

Written on September 2, 2014 at 12:05 am, by

Science fiction from Cuba.

The Bully of Order

Written on August 15, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

Bigness required bound­aries but this water had none save the shore we stood upon and the end of my eyeball’s reach.

Henna House

Written on August 1, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

I knew that the Confiscator was a bad man. I knew that my father hated and feared him.


Written on August 1, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

Girls, the man said, I’ve got an itch.

Switchback, 1994

Written on July 15, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

The pool of blood had grown a custardy skin in the cold, so that as the wind blew, it strained and jiggled.

2 A.M. at the Cat’s Pajamas

Written on July 15, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

Boys cross rooms for Georgie, who is full in the way they like. Foxy is the word for it, Sarina thinks, whereas she is foxless.

More Than This

Written on June 16, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

The boys here looked past her, their eyes steadily transfixed on the procession of tight designer jeans and heels clicking through the quad regularly on the hour.

Who Can Shave Thirteen Times a Day

Written on June 16, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

“I brushed Michael Bolton’s hair once,” I said, “and moisturized George Clooney too.”

Brest Fortress

Written on June 2, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

We walk along the forest on the side of the road. Onishchenko stops. “Give me your word, as one of the brothers, that you won’t tell anybody,” he says.


Written on June 2, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

They had never been this far out in the lake, this lost, this on their own.


Written on May 15, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

Instead of sobering up upon seeing the beheading, I went along with the hooligans. Hell, I was one of them.

What Lights Up the Night

Written on May 15, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

“This is how your parents have explained Paula’s coming: In Northern Ireland, the Protestants and Catholics are fighting.”

Waiting for the Electricity

Written on May 1, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

In the beginning, when God was distributing the land to all the nations, we Georgians missed the meeting.

The Interactions

Written on May 1, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

Most people experience the fullness of what it means to be a person. Most people, but not him.

A Brave Pilot From the New China

Written on April 15, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

For many years I had thought about my father’s suicide, about his various possible suicides.

Someone Is There

Written on April 15, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

Every profession had its misfits and mediocrities, but few attracted, as his did, the very people it was designed to help.

Last Words from Montmartre

Written on April 1, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

The Taiwanese novelist's story of a passionate relationship between two young women.

Love Struck

Written on April 1, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

I had never, in my whole life, been able to understand love as a sickness.

Ezekiel Saw the Wheel

Written on March 17, 2014 at 12:21 am, by

A heart-fixer is he, there is nothing he does not see...

I Will Crawl to Raleigh If I Have to

Written on March 17, 2014 at 12:20 am, by

My mom and I were going to stop to break up with my boyfriend on our way to Emerald Isle, but the muffler fell off of my car right before we got to the exit we needed to take to Raleigh.

The Dead at the Table

Written on March 3, 2014 at 12:05 am, by

When he left home he always needed to find a Target, otherwise he felt lost.

The Lobster Kings

Written on March 3, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

I have two sisters, but I’m the one who works the ocean with Daddy, Cordelia Kings, heir to the throne.


Written on February 17, 2014 at 12:05 am, by

I do not trust these people, and they are not worth the embarrassment.

The Jealous Wife

Written on February 17, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

“It’s over. I killed her,” he replied.

The Matiushin Case

Written on February 3, 2014 at 1:43 am, by

I don’t bear the army any grudge. I think they did right to beat me.


Written on February 3, 2014 at 1:42 am, by

I gave strict instructions for two specialists to watch over you twenty-four hours a day.


Written on January 15, 2014 at 12:04 am, by

People around Red were saying they were going to charge Piggy with a hate crime.

Necessary Evil

Written on January 15, 2014 at 12:03 am, by

Think of your being a Jew in terms of having been born with clubfoot: unfortunate, of course, but not the end of the world.

The Expedition to the Baobab Tree

Written on December 16, 2013 at 12:03 am, by

I had felt him in my blood vessels, for he had come to live in me and I had begun to smell like him, and with his eyes...

The World in the Evening

Written on December 4, 2013 at 12:04 am, by

To get to the point: last night an iceberg slid out of my mind and into the room, sheathing first the windows and then the walls with frost.

Crossing the Rio Grande

Written on December 4, 2013 at 12:03 am, by

“The Pacific Ocean,” he was telling their children through the rearview mirror, “is greater than the Atlantic. Many creatures are living there.”


Written on November 15, 2013 at 12:05 am, by

I could understand how difficult it must’ve been for two beautiful boys to resist one another, you, and my friend. But what happened next was what I had a hard time wrapping my head around.


Written on November 15, 2013 at 12:04 am, by

The little people eat on the couch while Berchta and I eat at the kitchen table, and she relaxes enough to grouse about how no one appreciates the old gods and goddesses anymore. I assume this is a typical complaint among mythical figures.

The Widow

Written on November 1, 2013 at 12:04 am, by

The husband did not stop until he reached the ocean. Did not turn to wave at the woman he would widow.

Millions of Americans Are Strange

Written on November 1, 2013 at 12:03 am, by

Frank pays John to meet him at a hotel when Frank is in town so John can tie him up and leave him alone like that for eight to ten hours.

Wonder Woman Underoos

Written on October 15, 2013 at 12:04 am, by

I crawled out of the bed wearing my PJ top and these little Wonder Woman Underoos.

A Lifetime of Food

Written on October 15, 2013 at 12:03 am, by

“He wouldn’t let me get a driver’s license. Did I ever tell you that? … I went down to the department and there was a soldier there who said, ‘I’m sorry but your husband has given us orders to turn you away.’”


Written on October 1, 2013 at 12:04 am, by

We were Boudreaux and Rothschild, Miller and Stackowski, O’Toole and Greene. We were Dani, Alyx, Rickie, Carlita, Jaz, Sam. We were butch. We were femme. We were bois. We were a tribe.

A Spring Cleaning

Written on October 1, 2013 at 12:03 am, by

When the previous summer’s blackout revealed that Barrett kept his family on an electric well pump rather than pay the town for water, Patrick had eased his mother’s shame by announcing that nothing pleased him better than a bath in the pond.

The House on Iran Street

Written on September 16, 2013 at 12:04 am, by

A map showed a tiny airplane, a jagged line trailing it, seemingly hovering over a dot named "Teheran."


Written on September 16, 2013 at 12:03 am, by

The wolves patrol back and forth and back and forth along the forest periphery and terrify the village children but not the parents—the parents are too busy with their politics and knickknacks to notice much about the wolves.

from A Forest of a Thousand Daemons: A Hunter’s Saga

Written on September 3, 2013 at 12:04 am, by

Without a doubt, my friend has told you the tale about my parents, and about the various things that I experienced when I visited the Forest of Irunmale.

The Watch

Written on September 3, 2013 at 12:03 am, by

Everyone is hoping that the just declared new country will be lucky, that the rioting and murdering will not break out as predicted by the expat at our bar the night before.

Mother, Grandmother, and Aunt Ellen

Written on August 15, 2013 at 12:04 am, by

They were full of stories, and right from the beginning they wanted to tell them all, and when they did they would look at him as if to encourage him to learn them by heart

The Sea Floor

Written on August 15, 2013 at 12:03 am, by

In a pile, like sea anemones, the boys’ penises were dusted with sand and, in the starlight, bluish.


Written on August 1, 2013 at 12:13 am, by

We all waited, I think. I don’t believe anyone rose immediately. And this was because the dead man was capable of anything. If he had fallen, who knew what he might do next?

Jesus Owes Me Money

Written on August 1, 2013 at 12:12 am, by

What I’m about to tell you Pastor John doesn’t know.

Five Shards

Written on July 15, 2013 at 12:05 am, by

A couple years before I was born my mother took my four year-old brother and ran away, home to Massachusetts and her parents, where they holed up like fugitives.

The Subaltern’s Guide to Time Travel

Written on July 15, 2013 at 12:04 am, by

He looks at me, into the core of my soul, and says, “This is my big white willy. I love my big white willy. It’s not a brown willy. It’s a white one.” He repeats this a few more times. My friends don’t quite know what to say.


Written on July 1, 2013 at 12:05 am, by

The man takes a piece of paper, he writes: S. Thala. S. Thala. S. Thala.


Written on July 1, 2013 at 12:04 am, by

“Your father lets you dress like this?” Dinara said.


Written on June 17, 2013 at 12:19 am, by

She’d forever be checking ethnicity boxes, emphasizing her parents’ work: farm laborer, housekeeping. Trying to prove that she was smart enough, committed enough, pleasant enough to be granted a trial period in their world.

The Law of Progress

Written on June 17, 2013 at 12:18 am, by

My mother’s mother used to say that it took four generations to get the black out.

from “The Hanging Garden”

Written on June 3, 2013 at 12:18 am, by

Ma Bulpit said, “You’ll find it hard till you know the ropes. Those Lockharts… Australians mean well.”

Nothing Was Said

Written on June 3, 2013 at 12:17 am, by

Not a word was uttered by an unknown man as he embraced an unknown twenty-year-old woman from behind on Boppstrasse.

Blak Power

Written on May 15, 2013 at 12:13 am, by

They are just everywhere, walking, rushing, running, toyi-toying, fists and machetes and knives and sticks and all sorts of weapons and the flags of the country in the air, Budapest quivering with the sound of their blazing voices: Kill the Boer, the farmer, the khiwa.

The Hunger Bride

Written on May 15, 2013 at 12:12 am, by

“Go home and pray to be forgiven,” she cried. “If you don’t pray now, you know what waits for you.”

Savage Coast

Written on May 1, 2013 at 12:43 am, by

Europe, the thought of Europe swelled over the horizon, like a giant dirigible, strung with lights in a dream of suspended power, but filled, in the dream, with a gas about to burst into flame.


Written on May 1, 2013 at 12:42 am, by

My uncle never did a bad thing to anybody, but one day while he was on his front porch eating an ice cream cone, two men came upon him, pushed him inside, tied his hands and feet, robbed his house, and shot him in the head

The Worst Thing That Happened

Written on April 15, 2013 at 12:08 am, by

“Don’t worry, it will be okay, these things happen for a reason,” Ma Bille said. “As I always say: the worst thing to happen to you is for the best—”


Written on April 15, 2013 at 12:07 am, by

Not much ever happened in Blaustein, but, even if it did, I would still remember the words she said, because it was the first time I’d heard them used, and their meaning, the parentheses they opened in my German existence every time someone used them, shocked me and made me feel like an intruder.

Give Hostages to Fortune

Written on April 1, 2013 at 12:06 am, by

I thought about her son in Tehran and if he were still alive, what he would do to Sheila. Lying in bed, I replayed the scene from earlier that day and wished that I’d answered Sheila’s blows with punches of my own, wished that I’d defended Mrs. Azam.

Psychiatrists and Mountain Dew

Written on April 1, 2013 at 12:05 am, by

I don’t want to have to get on any medicines, because as far as I’m concerned all shrinks are good for is getting you high.

Anthropogenesis, or: How to Make a Family

Written on March 15, 2013 at 12:06 am, by

Soon it was all they could do to keep these children from singeing the draperies or shattering the glass windowpanes with a single touch.

The Expo

Written on March 15, 2013 at 12:05 am, by

They arrived when the sea was swelling, threatening to sweep the old world back with it.

Four American Folktales

Written on March 1, 2013 at 12:06 am, by

In Malibu, there lived a beautiful old woman without a nervous system.

A Dark Tower Opening

Written on March 1, 2013 at 12:05 am, by

In the face of its stare, I stared back, and the bear slavered in response, shook its thick fur as welcome or warning. . .


Written on February 15, 2013 at 12:05 am, by

“These infidels cannot insult us like this. If you have the courage, come and face us out in the open. You cannot tie down a speechless animal and think you have beaten us..."

The Lump in Her Throat

Written on February 15, 2013 at 12:04 am, by

I don’t like the box they have put Papa in; I would have gotten him the fancy kind with polished wood and golden handles.

My Year Zero

Written on February 1, 2013 at 12:05 am, by

They stride through the woods and shout. They practice propping guns on their shoulders and breaking them in half so the empty shells tumble to the ground.

Marrying Up

Written on February 1, 2013 at 12:04 am, by

Eventually, I married a man more than twice my size. He terrified me. Making love felt like getting run over

Farewell, Africa

Written on January 15, 2013 at 12:07 am, by

According to Cornish, the pool, an infinity pool, would be able to recreate the event of Africa sinking into the sea.

Have You Heard Anything?

Written on December 17, 2012 at 12:15 am, by

During this time the weather changed and the voice on the radio brought uneasy news about barricades, policemen, and tear gas in the city.


Written on December 17, 2012 at 12:07 am, by

Then again, now he has to go to Greenland. To look at a body.

The Biggest Thing Ever

Written on December 3, 2012 at 12:06 am, by

Taken as a whole, no one who read the screenplay for Who We Are denied that it was clever in its composition, original in its pattern, and ruthlessly unsentimental in its conclusions. It was also “a bit portentous,” according to Sam’s father, Booth Dolan, the B-movie mainstay famous for his stentorian, blink-free performances. . .

A Man of the People

Written on December 3, 2012 at 12:05 am, by

He takes her hand, careful to keep his eyes away from her dominant breasts, her full pouty lips, and they begin in the living room.

The Weight of Rose Petals

Written on November 15, 2012 at 12:05 am, by

Winona eyed Frank down the long black barrels of the shotgun. She complained again about that whore he’d visited every Wednesday for fourteen years, before he lost his manhood in the accident at the rebar factory.

Café Flesh

Written on November 15, 2012 at 12:04 am, by

There was something fascinating about images of unknown semi-naked women; I wondered if there were newspapers filled with images of semi-naked men.

How I Gonna Bare My Neck Outside in the Sweat-Scared Morning

Written on November 15, 2012 at 12:03 am, by

Six feet tall and arms like bundled wire. He go strutting the length of the house.

Magic City Relic

Written on November 1, 2012 at 12:07 am, by

. . .I looked down at Omar’s pants to tear off his belt and realized that we were shrouded in such darkness, I couldn't see the buckle.

Boy, A History

Written on November 1, 2012 at 12:06 am, by

Notes on names Boy gets called at school: fudge packer, pansy, fairy, pillow biter, cock gobbler.


Written on November 1, 2012 at 12:05 am, by

Jimmy Nolan has a thing for broads—loud, brassy women who sit with their legs open and drink beer straight from the bottle—women who always say exactly what they’re thinking and for better or worse, mean what they say.

Throw Forever to the Fleas

Written on October 15, 2012 at 12:07 am, by

This was Clyde’s third Ramadan, but his first alone.

Dear John

Written on October 1, 2012 at 12:11 am, by

First, it was his hands. Three days after he announced that he was going to leave me, I watched him drinking his coffee and noticed how his three middle fingers were slipped through the handle, gripping the body of the mug in a confident, almost loving way.

The Last Hour of the Bengal Tiger

Written on October 1, 2012 at 12:00 am, by

What was I going to do when I saw her? It was a question I had asked myself a thousand times. Slap her? Scream insults? Demand she give my husband back?

from The Story of My Assassins

Written on September 17, 2012 at 12:22 am, by

His first conscious memory, from the time he was three, was the feel of a rat snake slithering through his hands.


Written on September 17, 2012 at 12:21 am, by

When did the Berlin Zoo stop displaying humans? 1931, I think, but I’m not sure.


Written on September 4, 2012 at 12:05 am, by

If you must travel, travel by Amtrak. Trains are safe, buses are not. I mean safe from raids by the INS.

The Anointing

Written on September 4, 2012 at 12:05 am, by

Seven months into her husband’s depression, Diane called the church secretary. She wanted the elders to come over and anoint Mitch with oil.

This is a Dad Story

Written on August 15, 2012 at 12:06 am, by

This story can’t get it’s tense together or it’s person, now. Has it even got its "its" right?

One Night

Written on August 15, 2012 at 12:05 am, by

But the girl is still asleep. Perhaps, thinks the prince, he kissed her too lightly. He stoops down again and kisses her a second time, this time a touch more vigorously.


Written on August 1, 2012 at 12:20 am, by

They were followed by a group in tropical wear, slipping and sliding, trying to prevent their ill-fitting thong sandals from flying off. A smaller group had chosen winter wear, rolling up the block like juiced up ticks, draped in coats and jackets.


Written on August 1, 2012 at 12:19 am, by

I stare at the ground imagining I am one of the condemned, what it felt like to have my fingernails torn off. I clench my fists tight and brace myself for the pain, wishing I was off this wretched island, wishing I was home.

High Schools, or How to Be Asian American

Written on July 16, 2012 at 12:02 am, by

After my parents were divorced I fell in love with the ugliest girl in my white high school. This was what I believed—the love part, I mean; the ugly part was true.

Two Stories

Written on July 16, 2012 at 12:00 am, by

In Qatar, the birds have built their own hidden city.

American Nurse

Written on July 2, 2012 at 12:03 am, by

American Nurse became our possession, the Party headquarters in Beijing told us, for only a week before Deng decided what to do with her

Gone to the Forest

Written on June 15, 2012 at 12:02 am, by

His father is more than twice her age but her eyes are pinned to his lips as he speaks to her in his fur-lined baritone.

The World Without You

Written on June 1, 2012 at 7:30 pm, by

He’s mopping at his pelvis with a wadded-up tissue, and then he’s mopping her up as well. Already the backs of her thighs are caking up.


Written on May 31, 2012 at 11:30 am, by

Still, I started for the parlor. I’d polished my shoes, put gel in my hair: habits my mother had always wanted me to form and I had always resisted. Walking down the street, I felt conspicuous, as though people were sniggering at my gleaming head and feet.


Written on May 14, 2012 at 8:00 am, by

I imagine what Janneke and Karin would say if they saw us together: Oh, she’s lost it now.

The Red Tricycle

Written on May 14, 2012 at 12:00 am, by

He liked how her odd mouth conjured surprise like a jack in the box. She liked how he used his bathtub as a closet.


Written on May 1, 2012 at 12:00 pm, by

People who look on the bright side all the time are hypocrites at least some of the time. To say that shitty things are shitty is to speak honest truth about the world.


Written on May 1, 2012 at 12:00 am, by

This bloody fucking century Uncle Miki said . . . began and ended in Yugoslavia.


Written on April 15, 2012 at 8:00 am, by

Their bodies converse. They forget that very soon one of them will be burned alive on Place de Grève.

Two Stories

Written on April 15, 2012 at 1:54 am, by

And then he would knock on the door and my mother would answer and he would say to her, “This is no ordinary child. She understands.”

Lang’s Dragon

Written on April 1, 2012 at 12:55 am, by

Demand for drugs was on the rise, and there was more pussy to be had than ever. Can you blame me for helping to move a little bit of both?

Things (Part Two)

Written on April 1, 2012 at 12:00 am, by

Never again will men be treated as things.

Things (Part One)

Written on March 7, 2012 at 5:58 pm, by

A member of the public complained that the settee was getting overheated. And he was right.

The Last Occupy

Written on March 7, 2012 at 12:19 pm, by

Occupy Northville has reached an impasse that only Death can solve.

Suddenly, a Knock on the Door

Written on March 1, 2012 at 10:18 am, by

“Tell me a story,” the bearded man sitting on my living-room sofa commands. The situation, I must admit, is anything but pleasant.

Devil in the Bottle

Written on February 15, 2012 at 3:23 pm, by

She tried not to look at the dead body lying only a few steps away in front of the Berkeh and under her breath prayed to the prophet Mohammad that Faraj had nothing to do with it.

All At Sea

Written on February 14, 2012 at 3:10 pm, by

Entire island nations were not supposed to sink into the water in the space of minutes, no matter how hard the earthquake or immense the flood, but it seemed that this was what her home had done.

The Doctors’ Daughter

Written on February 1, 2012 at 1:32 am, by

Guillermo kissed her and she was not afraid of his tongue and his hands on her body, and she wanted to stay with him all night, wanted to lie down on the wet earth, but he turned around and began walking back, pulling her behind him, and soon they were out on the road and the sound of the insects grew distant, and the trees no longer protected them from the stars.


Written on January 15, 2012 at 12:54 am, by

"What are years? Just so much backed-up vomit and shit. But look at me digressing. How rude of me. When you want money."


Written on January 1, 2012 at 9:00 pm, by

As a writer of minor stature but much endurance, I submit now my application regarding my newest project, my life work, The Life Box.

February 27, 1995

Written on December 15, 2011 at 5:31 pm, by

Murders weren’t uncommon in Lawrence but they weren’t an epidemic either. So they weren’t news.

From Catastrophes

Written on December 1, 2011 at 5:05 pm, by

They string people upside down from the verandas and split them with bayonets. Halved people hang in rows and the blood drips pif-pif-paf in the snow.

Twelve Reflections on Brochures and Sword-Swallowing

Written on November 15, 2011 at 12:47 pm, by

Cooking was my second love, though. Arthur was third. Sword-swallowing came first.

Fardaha (The General on the Roof)

Written on November 1, 2011 at 11:35 pm, by

Fardaha represents the second dekalogue of Canto X of an unfinished epic by the poet Omid Pirr.


Written on November 1, 2011 at 11:25 pm, by

“It will never stop, and it will always be necessary. What I did to you was necessary, and what you do to me is necessary.”


Written on November 1, 2011 at 10:27 pm, by

The spark of attraction he felt for Farideh could grow into a steady flame, he was sure now.

From Until the Dawn’s Light

Written on October 15, 2011 at 6:59 pm, by

“What attracts you to the Jews?” Blanca asked her.

From River of Smoke

Written on October 1, 2011 at 11:03 am, by

To assemble the whole clan—La Fami Colver, as they said in Kreol—was never easy since its members were widely scattered, within the island and abroad.

From Habibi, a graphic novel

Written on September 15, 2011 at 12:09 am, by

Zam, a refugee slave, has become separated from Dodola. He searches the desert and the city to find her. Starving and desperate, he meets a eunuch. . .

The Man from the Ad

Written on September 1, 2011 at 12:00 am, by

Nelda didn’t know of anyone else turning thirty who’d never kissed a man. Her sister Maria said women who never made out with anyone were prone to a nervous condition in their old age.

Running the Lines for Fulgence

Written on August 15, 2011 at 12:00 am, by

The coroner told me at the morgue that the mudslide had crushed Fulgence quickly, and the density of the dislodged soil meant that there would not have been enough oxygen for him to suffer.

Those Who Answered to Abraham

Written on August 1, 2011 at 12:00 am, by

“It is bad that a man who has swum in the great River Niger should be drowned in its small tributary.”

The Sexual Lives of Missionaries

Written on July 15, 2011 at 3:49 pm, by

There were big ones and small ones and medium-sized ones, blonde and brunette, and even bald ones…

The Chaperone

Written on July 1, 2011 at 12:18 am, by

What delighted me was watching how the sun changed my appearance. I spent nightly hours in the mirror, describing the new shades and hues of my face or arms to my martin, who was colorblind.

Outside the Gates of Troy

Written on June 15, 2011 at 12:00 am, by

They sit down in an orderly, patient manner, packed together in the belly of the beast. The smell of varnish lingers on inside and intoxicates them all.

East Beirut, 1978

Written on June 1, 2011 at 11:55 pm, by

“Self,” she queried, “should we just kill him and be done?” She smoked, exhaling through her nose like a dragon.

The Oracle

Written on June 1, 2011 at 11:45 pm, by

I was like the oracle of fatness all of a sudden.

The Bastard of Salinas

Written on June 1, 2011 at 11:45 pm, by

“Better to believe that you come from two happy parents.”

Secret Boyfriend

Written on June 1, 2011 at 3:39 am, by

The year we went to the Camps, my sister Leila was eighteen years old and had just begun her secret affair with Sammy.

Girls on Ice

Written on June 1, 2011 at 2:42 am, by

I was in the bathroom stall at the Armenian chicken place in Anaheim when I overheard Sarah say to her even more annoying friend Abeer at the mirror, where they were both putting on gobs of makeup, “I’m just going to kill myself, habibti, if I don’t make the triple axel at the championships next month.”

Ten Micro Stories

Written on May 15, 2011 at 12:00 am, by

“Every man is limited to a certain number of words in his lifetime... Some of these words might also be words that you whisper in a foreign language that you don’t even know, in a dream, for example”: ten micro-fiction pieces.


Written on May 1, 2011 at 12:00 am, by

The floor was made of dirt, the walls dark and smooth, the ceiling just high enough for us to stand upright. You could walk a quarter mile before it ended, cut off by a stone wall. And it was in this tunnel that Darcie heard the voice of her mother, who was dead.

There Is Hope – Make the Call

Written on April 15, 2011 at 12:00 am, by

I had hoped… for what? A game of Scrabble on the way down, or to get married, or at the very least to link hands with a serendipitous octet of fellow self-murderers–the drop had certainly looked big enough for such skydiving antics.

The In-Between Woman

Written on April 15, 2011 at 12:00 am, by

It is nowhere near impossible for somebody who loves her husband to also love her co-wife.

Dear Yale

Written on April 1, 2011 at 12:00 am, by

Don’t think of me angry. Think of me as I am, standing at the mailbox on a sunny September mid-morning, a light breeze kicking up a swirl of dust and aster leaves around my legs.

The Price of Escape

Written on March 15, 2011 at 11:48 am, by

As soon as the maid was out of earshot, his uncle said: “I’ve paid a lot to get you a visa for Panama and Guatemala. At another time, this would be called a bribe. It may take a month, maybe more, to get them.”

Lamu Squat

Written on March 1, 2011 at 2:45 pm, by

They fix passage across the channel for three hundred shillings; Meroe haggles. The motorboats have long since skimmed into the dusk, the passengers smiling and laughing at the platitudes of the Lamuans.

Shoes for Napoleon

Written on February 15, 2011 at 9:38 am, by

Like every soldier he had deployed with, he would probably buy himself a new car, but for now, he bought his friends drinks and dinners and gifts as if it was Christmas and he was some lean and tan Santa Claus.

Loose Morals

Written on February 1, 2011 at 7:25 pm, by

Did you know that more people jack off than pick their nose while driving?

Rosa de la Rosas

Written on January 15, 2011 at 10:19 am, by

Rosa is tired of talk, tired of being tired. Armed guards stand outside to keep intruders out, or las muchachas in.


Written on January 1, 2011 at 10:11 am, by

Finally, he learned her name: Nan.


Written on December 15, 2010 at 11:57 pm, by

A special issue: flash fiction from four favorite writers.


Written on December 15, 2010 at 11:57 pm, by

A special issue: flash fiction from four favorite writers.

I Do Love God

Written on December 15, 2010 at 10:42 pm, by

A special issue: flash fiction from four favorite writers.

As Formless As My Fear

Written on December 15, 2010 at 10:42 pm, by

A special issue: flash fiction from four favorite writers.

Michigan: A Love Story

Written on December 1, 2010 at 6:26 pm, by

The girl is from the state where people use their hands to show where they live.

Iftar at Isabelle’s

Written on November 15, 2010 at 5:43 pm, by

We go outside and into the city, which is a messy conglomerate of heat and waste. We would breathe air if there were any, but instead there are varieties of emissions and so we breathe those instead.

The Convent

Written on November 1, 2010 at 1:41 pm, by

There are times when you will do anything to protect a baby.

Two Short-Short Stories

Written on October 15, 2010 at 5:42 pm, by

Two stories on leaving and returning to Ireland.

There is No “E” in Zombi Which Means There Can Be No You Or We

Written on October 1, 2010 at 6:25 pm, by

They do not walk around with their arms and legs locked stiffly. They can be saved.

The Wrong Blood

Written on September 15, 2010 at 6:38 pm, by

An excerpt from Manuel de Lope’s first novel to be translated into English.

The Consequence of Skating

Written on September 1, 2010 at 9:59 pm, by

Life at an empty amusement park: An excerpt from the upcoming novel

Language of the Dead

Written on August 15, 2010 at 4:53 pm, by

Could she break herself down to the bare necessities like they did? Food, water, work? What were her bare necessities?

The Fragile Mistress

Written on August 1, 2010 at 6:52 pm, by

An unpublished excerpt, soon to be a film.


Written on July 15, 2010 at 6:21 pm, by

Having four ears could be a sign of the Apocalypse. Or just good for selling a t-shirt.

Emergency Room

Written on July 1, 2010 at 7:20 pm, by

This is what happens when patients lose their patience.

Spring with a Broken Corner

Written on July 1, 2010 at 4:33 pm, by

Part 2 of a new translation excerpt of the major South American writer’s novel.

Spring with a Broken Corner

Written on June 15, 2010 at 9:52 pm, by

Tonight I’m alone. My cellmate (you’ll know his name some day) is in the infirmary.

Him, Me, Muhammad Ali

Written on June 1, 2010 at 12:16 pm, by

He drank bourbon out of an unpacked glass, and talked about a photograph of him, me when I was a baby, and Muhammad Ali. “I have no idea where it is now,” he said.

A Period of Time

Written on May 15, 2010 at 9:47 pm, by

It had been such a small thing, the thing that made them split up, the thing she later cited as the reason she’d left him.

The Revolutionaries Try Again

Written on May 1, 2010 at 5:30 pm, by

The one public phone near the Atarazana slums that didn’t filch your coins. At least not all of them. That soon after hordes were pilgrimaging to it and lining up to dial their departed.

Shoes for Rent

Written on April 15, 2010 at 1:38 pm, by

There was this six-foot-three very large man who lived with his cousin who had constant sore throats.

The True Story of Fresh Springs

Written on April 1, 2010 at 11:22 am, by

The detectives flashed their I.D.’s, just like they’d seen in the movies. They were simple boys from the countryside who needed a job. She them let in.

Quella, Querida, Quintessa

Written on March 15, 2010 at 4:34 pm, by

How beautiful our daughter is in her white Tethering dress, dancing with her younger cousins across the decorated length of our yard


Written on March 1, 2010 at 1:37 am, by

They were still a good distance from Merzouga when the snake got a hold of him.

The Affliction

Written on February 15, 2010 at 9:47 pm, by

Ricardo never knew what to say to Javier Castillo. Can you blame him? I wouldn’t know what to say to a man who could disappear.

Quality Street

Written on February 1, 2010 at 11:54 pm, by

Sochienne called her a fat bourgeois, a dilettante dancing while Nigeria was failing, as though she could somehow solve the country’s problems by depriving herself of a manicure.


Written on February 1, 2010 at 5:05 pm, by

His mother was about to say something, but all she could murmur was zalzala. Earthquake.


Written on February 1, 2010 at 5:04 pm, by

The soft light of the flames made her face seem prettier than it really was. Younger. She was a fixture in his life, a neutral—at most, perhaps, a reflective surface.


Written on February 1, 2010 at 5:03 pm, by

Violet’s hair salon, Simpatico, was not far from the bus stop at Tafawa Balewa Square. It was on the way to Ikoyi, on a small road where artisans and craftsmen exhibited their works like miniature wooden villages, canoes, painted drums and rag dolls.

The Norwegians

Written on February 1, 2010 at 5:02 pm, by

The Norwegians were coming to dinner.

The Deer-Vehicle Collision Survivors Support Group

Written on February 1, 2010 at 5:01 pm, by

This is the storm right before the calm, she is letting it all out now, because she knows it’s coming. She wants to go home, even if it is what she used to call hell sweet hell.


Written on February 1, 2010 at 5:00 pm, by

As Sunil stood in his backyard staring at the carcass of the small unidentifiable animal—a cross between a rat and a Chihuahua—he realized he was missing something important.

The Book of Shapur

Written on January 9, 2010 at 6:31 pm, by

You take a vacation, you take a plane, and now this. You are running away from knowing this information. This is how things are these days.

From A Hot Corner of the World: Israeli Fiction

Written on January 1, 2010 at 11:17 pm, by

We are from different backgrounds. We were born and grew up in different parts of the country: north and south and Tel Aviv and Jerusalem and abroad: the core and the periphery.

Second Chance

Written on January 1, 2010 at 10:14 pm, by

Our Max lived his life straight as an arrow, fast as lightning, no ifs, no buts, at least until now.

A Competition

Written on January 1, 2010 at 9:23 pm, by

Nothing has changed with him in the last three days. But I grew up and received additional time that cannot be measured in years.

A Ship of Girls

Written on January 1, 2010 at 7:01 pm, by

But, truth is, I wasn’t looking too hot after the second scraping. It was only a cleanup job, the abortion just happened.


Written on January 1, 2010 at 2:34 pm, by

The Arab is so stunned, he doesn’t move. Just stands there with his certificate and his rusty key. Not breathing.


Written on January 1, 2010 at 12:19 pm, by

After years in moving, you can tell by looking at the stuff. You can tell what it’s worth, if it’s cheap or valuable. And this guy—his stuff is worth billions, you see it immediately. Everything is as expensive as it gets, the furniture, the pictures, and the kitchen.

The Broken Clock

Written on December 5, 2009 at 12:42 pm, by

He tries to kiss her but she moves her chin. He pauses, considers stopping, but tries once more.

Two Short-Short Stories

Written on December 1, 2009 at 3:32 pm, by

They hired a Yiddish-speaking detective, wagged fingers at the short man clutching a squashed hat, and told him to listen carefully to each performance, find the obscenities, please.


Written on November 7, 2009 at 10:12 am, by

The pain occurs to me, and then I put words to the pain, and before long I am in a cardboard box hurtling through time.

Red Ink

Written on November 3, 2009 at 12:40 am, by

On the day of the battle, General Yu woke up with a severe stiff neck.

The Other Gandhi

Written on November 1, 2009 at 12:49 am, by

“You’re saying that the other Gandhi was created in the editing? Is that what you’re trying to say to me?”

Murder the Queen

Written on November 1, 2009 at 12:07 am, by

Whatever you might say about the despicable nature of what I did, it was not as the press hints an act of desperation but one of hope.

A Rightful Share

Written on November 1, 2009 at 12:07 am, by

I want to tell you about my friend Kandan. Full name Kandan A/L Palanivel. Twenty years old. Handsome bastard.

Pieter Emily (Part 3 of 3)

Written on October 6, 2009 at 10:36 pm, by

They have seen my house burn. They have shown themselves to be that which they hate, that which they want to chase away out of the village.

Pieter Emily (Part 2 of 3)

Written on October 1, 2009 at 4:48 pm, by

It was she who befriended Pieter. The things they did were not good things, not always. Once, they cut off a horse’s hoof for no reason at all, and left it on the steps of the church.

Pieter Emily (Part 1 of 3)

Written on September 4, 2009 at 11:11 am, by

Since Pieter Emily had been seen, a rash of trouble had begun. The farmers on farms closest to the low road had found animals dead, their throats cut.


Written on September 1, 2009 at 4:05 pm, by

The dog had first appeared to Boone one night as he sat in what remained of his living room, staring at the tarp that hung in place of what used to be his living room wall.

Keeping Her Difficult Balance

Written on September 1, 2009 at 11:09 am, by

Everything floats down to this place, the very end of Bayou St. John where Delia sits, her feet dangling just above the tepid water.

The Genius Meetings

Written on August 3, 2009 at 2:11 pm, by

We meet to congratulate ourselves but we also meet to purge ourselves. We meet to share things we cannot share with you. Smart things but also customs. Like the metaphorical value of sleeping in a nightcap to keep the genius in.


Written on July 6, 2009 at 8:43 pm, by

The house she grew up in, with its walled-in courtyard, windowless rooms, on gray streets in Ghanat Abad, with some of the houses and shops boarded up, some damaged during the Iran-Iraq war and never repaired, and women walking around in dark shroud-like chadors, had seemed like jail.

The Last Geronimo

Written on July 1, 2009 at 10:03 pm, by

The monkey shrieks and runs across the table, scattering purchase orders. They have just finished the “Fancy Furry Friends” trade show in Las Vegas where the monkey dutifully twirled a tiny baton in a beguiling azure tulle and sequined gown.

Sarverville Remains

Written on June 5, 2009 at 7:10 am, by

This ain’t a novel, Mister Podawalski. There ain’t no editor like there was for what Sam writ from his mountain. There is just the Lord checking his notes.

A Rare Sighting

Written on June 1, 2009 at 2:39 pm, by

His excuses were always attributable to recent sightings of Bigfoot, the half-man, half-beast, which he argued demanded immediate documentation by a legitimate authority.

Three Short-Short Stories

Written on May 8, 2009 at 4:51 pm, by

Aside from the phone calls, it occurred to me that Dan hadn’t spoken to anyone in over a week. The cottage could be isolating in that way and I was too raw for him to go.


Written on May 1, 2009 at 11:06 pm, by

I washed down the thick, sweet smelling medicine with water, hoping her cramping intestines would absorb it into her bloodstream fast enough to keep her alive until Soweto.


Written on April 6, 2009 at 7:56 pm, by

I find him sitting on a plastic lounge chair by the hotel pool. I give a little wave and he stands. We kiss on the cheek. He tells me I’m taller than he remembers.

The Question

Written on April 1, 2009 at 10:30 pm, by

The first thing you notice are his eyes.

A Meeting

Written on March 6, 2009 at 4:57 pm, by

Jiyoung did seem traumatized from the experience. She said she was scared to be by herself at night, so Jan let her stay in her apartment, and of course Jan stayed with her. I wasn’t so happy about my bed being empty, but I wanted to do the bigger thing, so I didn’t complain, not a peep.


Written on March 1, 2009 at 12:41 pm, by

We were not inventive people and so we called my friend Crazy Fucker. He took to the name like he took to us, with a fierce loyalty.

The Less True Sport

Written on February 5, 2009 at 9:58 pm, by

It was a bad idea to be on the road after dark.


Written on February 1, 2009 at 1:50 am, by

Her advisor leaned toward her, his face close to hers, and looked her square in the eyes. “Nan,” he said. “No one can ever really plan for things like this.”

Four Short-Short Stories

Written on January 5, 2009 at 4:17 pm, by

He was mostly into curve balls. He handled the ball in odd ways, not holding the way you were supposed to, with your fingers in the right holes, lining up, getting centered. He bowled as if it were a dance, a slow one with a beat you made up from the inside.

Jesse’s Story

Written on January 1, 2009 at 2:23 pm, by

I watch the color as she moves, carrying all of him in her form as if she knows. Stopping before a photograph, she meets my brother for the first time. Propped, he is supported by a slim frame of wood, reduced to a single moment in a four inch by six inch frame, laughing.

The Trapdoor

Written on December 2, 2008 at 7:58 pm, by

Five rounds passed, without pain or glory. Nothing happened in the ring to excite the sparse crowd.

No. 2 Dumpling Assembly Line

Written on December 1, 2008 at 10:19 am, by

The first to go was the coal delivery man and his daughter. His name was Zhou, sounding like the Duke of Zhou, a prominent early follower of Confucius. The choice of the coal delivery man was a popular one. The coal delivery man was known for shorting the residents on coal.


Written on November 11, 2008 at 8:19 pm, by

I’m a better person than a particular author of a particular story says I am and I won’t keep quiet about it any longer. One reason I can’t hold my peace is that the author is my husband.

Clever Kidz

Written on November 11, 2008 at 7:47 pm, by

She grabbed my hair at the nape, plunged me in, jammed mud past my teeth. She’s a Blackwater mercenary, so no messing around. She wasn’t here for Christmas but at last I found her on the bank of the river, I was back with my sister at last!

The Seven Credos: Guernica Fiction Guest-Edited by Ben Marcus

Written on October 8, 2008 at 3:04 pm, by

I want to offer one-sentence credos written by each of the contributors, and it will show you in shorthand what drives them, what they believe is possible in writing, and how they distill their practice (especially when they know that their sentences will be published without attribution, which is how I got them to cough up these mottos in the first place).

January in December

Written on October 8, 2008 at 2:29 pm, by

Church was bunk. Scarves were bunk. The cold was bunk. Robert Fancer’s grandfather, the man he was wheeling back from afternoon service in a crappy chair, was massively bunk.

The Peephole

Written on October 8, 2008 at 2:17 pm, by

We are all of us spectators—and this must be asserted in the face of the many naive traditions insisting that a portion of us are of a lesser sort, and can or should not truly bear witness to Agony and all that precedes it.


Written on October 8, 2008 at 11:40 am, by

In the end Julia agreed to three days in Denmark.

Bob Alfresco

Written on October 7, 2008 at 8:46 pm, by

Bob was inside. He wanted alfresco.

Regards from Mozambique

Written on October 7, 2008 at 5:40 pm, by

Gordon was the only person she knew, other than her parents, who paid to have a paper delivered to his door each morning. He followed gubernatorial campaigns in states he did not live in and had never lived in.


Written on October 6, 2008 at 2:59 pm, by

in superficial ways—the size of the chimney or placement of the porch—or in meeker assertions, a mailbox that looked like a reindeer, a soggy doll fastened to a swing. Evidence of thoughtless, pleasureless lives.

She Is, Because

Written on October 6, 2008 at 2:38 pm, by

She was walking with the short man. Though only yesterday she had been with the tall man. Or she was walking behind the short man, down the street, wondering did she really want to do this and if not why would she be doing it?


Written on October 1, 2008 at 7:04 pm, by

My friends in the camp are known by the inscriptions written on their t-shirts. Acapulco wears a t-shirt with the inscription, Acapulco. Sexy’s t-shirt has the inscription Tell Me I’m Sexy. Paris’s t-shirt says See Paris And Die.

Postcards from the Museum of Olivia

Written on October 1, 2008 at 9:22 am, by

In Leroy’s account, a woman named Amanda, who wears a name tag that identifies her as a sales associate at the Museum of Olivia, explains that entering the town requires the payment of an admission fee because, “the Town of Olivia is the Museum of Olivia.”

The Woman on the Tape

Written on October 1, 2008 at 9:06 am, by

Things float around like the room is a tide pool. I’m never sure what’s going to be where and what’s going to appear.

The Memoirs and Prison Journal of Horace W. Redpole, 1793-1794

Written on September 1, 2008 at 8:50 pm, by

Grandmother was sprawled upon the couch in a heap of black crinoline; her shockingly white legs were raised in the air. Mr. Sparrow supported himself in a very precarious position and did not look the least bit comfortable but was busy grinding his privates into Grandmother’s, much like a mortar and pestle.

After Lilly

Written on August 6, 2008 at 2:58 pm, by

They met along the East River, beneath the Manhattan Bridge, on the esplanade.

Plastic Jade

Written on July 14, 2008 at 7:21 pm, by

Melissa didn’t think anything about Boone at all, but she smiled at him. She ducked her eyes, looking away the way men like a girl to do. In the years she’d been in this brothel, she’d learned a lot about what men want.

The 24-Hour Date

Written on July 13, 2008 at 8:53 pm, by

Acorns began to fall from the sky and slapped him with the ferocity of bullets in a gang shooting. I told him he could boast of hickies on his neck on his second date. I grew suddenly hot and wanted to masturbate in the woods hysterical naked.

Korean Enough: Alexander Chee on New Korean American Fiction

Written on June 14, 2008 at 11:43 pm, by

I lived my first three years in Korea, in my grandfather’s house in Seoul, before we moved to Truk, Hawaii, Guam, then Maine.


Written on June 14, 2008 at 9:59 pm, by

She was limp and sweaty but I snuggled into the comfortable softness of her. They had cut her open, and she was whole. She looked very tired and sick; on her gown, blood bloomed like a slow flower.

Gwangju (from a novel-in-progress)

Written on June 14, 2008 at 9:09 pm, by

Smoke lingered in the air but I knew it wasn’t the smoke I was reacting to. Hundreds of feet thundered by, some in sneakers and socks, others in heavy, lace-up boots. We were in a storm of bodies, arms, and legs pumping here and there, shouts and chants interspersed with cries of rage and screams of pain. I

NOGM (from a novel-in-progress)

Written on June 14, 2008 at 8:27 pm, by

He responded to my Craigslist posting fairly quickly. Age, location, and phone number—he was strictly business. I was hesitant about meeting him, but he kept saying, Nothing has to happen. It doesn't have to if you don't want it to. We'll go somewhere well-lit. C’mon.

Tube of Thunder

Written on June 8, 2008 at 2:49 pm, by

Mike is irresistible—a skinny guy with worried eyebrows. He likes to hustle poker, does not own a TV, and carries a handkerchief around for his allergies. His apartment is directly under Hellgate Bridge; he gets it cheap because a train shakes the building six times a day.

How the Soldier Repairs the Gramophone

Written on May 1, 2008 at 10:56 am, by

You didn't have a real grandpa, Aleksandar, only a sad man. He mourned for his river and his earth. He would kneel down, scratch about in that earth of his until his fingernails broke and the blood came.

The Machine Edda

Written on April 26, 2008 at 11:06 pm, by

First they see the pale tendrils of steam rising up and then the gleaming cantilevered roof and then they are pulling up their wagons before the refinery, which is like a haphazardly assembled aluminum pagoda set into the high wall that marks the boundary of the kingdom Mnemosyne.

The Loves of Mao

Written on April 18, 2008 at 2:35 pm, by

Mao loves to swim. Beside Li-Min’s bed, above her nightstand, there is evidence. A yellowing newspaper clipping displays Mao Tse-tung’s perfectly round head and shining eyes, bobbing brilliantly out of the Yangtze’s dark waves.

All That is Solid

Written on April 7, 2008 at 4:42 pm, by

Can you imagine the static electricity produced by a turned-on giant gorilla?

Something So Nice for Nobody

Written on April 6, 2008 at 5:26 pm, by

Last year sucked for everybody, except maybe Jackie, who found true happiness with Carlene.

Two Short-Short Stories

Written on February 24, 2008 at 9:05 pm, by

Before coming to the Amazon, she had heard stories about Jacques Gallant, whispers from female scientists at zoology conferences, always about a colleague-of-a-colleague who had been seduced by Jacques underneath a jungle canopy or in a mountain cave.

You Don’t Say

Written on February 24, 2008 at 8:45 pm, by

I reached across the table and scooped pasta out of his bowl, ate it with my hands. He sighed. “You have tomato on your chin.”

The Noticers

Written on January 11, 2008 at 3:48 pm, by

When the heat comes I have to get out. I live on the top floor of a tenement walk-up, a flat filled to clutter with the detritus of a lifetime in New York City, my belongings packed so tight they seem to sweat and absorb all that’s breathable from the still air and deprive me of oxygen when I try to sleep. Such is the heat wave untempered by air conditioning. I haven’t slept in nights.

Join the Club

Written on January 11, 2008 at 3:08 pm, by

Thus began my fascination with Holden Caulfield. Not the Holden Caulfield, archetypal anti-hero of American arts and letters, not to mention inspiration for some of our better-read assassins. I’m talking about Holden Caulfield Sapperstein, an all-too-real young lady whose parents named her, for better or worse, after their favorite author’s infamous creation.

When Rain Hits This City Already Floundering

Written on January 11, 2008 at 2:30 pm, by

The sergeant dealt him a series of rapid-fire slashes across the face with his whip, and then dragged him to the edge of the flooded pit.

The Papermaker

Written on January 11, 2008 at 1:59 pm, by

The young man was having a cigarette on the street corner, feeling just about ready to get on with his day, when a man with a Clark Gable moustache and a shaved head leaned out his second story window and called down, “Hey you."

A Person of Interest (a novel excerpt)

Written on November 18, 2007 at 3:56 pm, by

Everything as it always was, day after day, until the thunderous boom.

Two Films (a novel excerpt)

Written on November 15, 2007 at 11:13 pm, by

As the projector unexplainably kept on rolling even after the house lights went up and the medics made their way to the front, some, apparently to the filmmaker’s credit as an artist and perhaps his detriment as a person, continued to watch and even laugh at the hazy antics on the screen.

Ball Game (a novel excerpt)

Written on November 15, 2007 at 3:47 pm, by

He should have been thankful that Xavi died when their friendship was still intact, still unconditionally generous, as strong as their youthful athletes' muscles, as stubbornly perfect.

You’re My Only Home (a novel excerpt)

Written on November 15, 2007 at 3:36 pm, by

The mirror needs to be hung up at a height of 18 feet. The four-foot stepladder we borrowed from the Weisses comes up nine feet short, and climbing the low-hanging branches has not been as easy as I first imagined. The bark leaves a slippery residue on my palms and the needles tear away as easily as leper hair.

Atmospheric Disturbances (a novel excerpt)

Written on November 15, 2007 at 3:23 pm, by

Those phrases, something has changed, just need to get away, personal vacation, were not really my words but TV words, movie words, pollen in the air.

456 Victoria (a novel excerpt)

Written on November 15, 2007 at 2:53 pm, by

“I can’t study here." Karenne’s hand waved loosely over the room. Augati saw the whole shabby truth of her life. The coffee table: a door, the handle still on poking up through the magazines that concealed the rest, rows upon rows of old magazines, many with missing covers, many marked and marred by grease, spilled coffee, forgotten bubble gum. Even the pillow she had picked up when she joined Karenne was bald, and it stank.

Six Stories Guest-Edited by Francisco Goldman

Written on November 15, 2007 at 1:20 pm, by

Of course, along with just about everything else in my life, everything work-related stopped, was canceled, postponed.


Written on September 16, 2007 at 11:57 am, by

“Just lie there,” he would say. “Pretend your hands are tied to the bed frame. Pretend you can’t move them.”

Nick’s Inferno (The twenty-seven notebooks of Nick Dante)

Written on September 14, 2007 at 11:28 am, by

Maybe I used to be innocent, before I was four, or five, before I stole Veronica’s silver dollars and lit fires. I sleep under God’s moon and God’s shooting stars and I swear if I see one tonight I will make a wish.

How to Rent a Hotel Room

Written on September 14, 2007 at 11:05 am, by

I miss her. She had a way of walking out of a dressing room, when she was trying on pants that would take your breath away.

It’s Not About the Dog

Written on August 6, 2007 at 11:08 pm, by

"How can you stand to live out here in the middle of nowhere, Iris?" she asks, as if this wasn't at one time her hometown too. She waits, but I am not going to play. She studies me. "Oh, I get it," she says. "You guys think you're safe.”


Written on August 6, 2007 at 10:55 pm, by

A guy in a suit, I don't know him, walks by my cubicle holding one of the paper plates, his mouth full, chewing his last bite, folds the plate around his napkin and fork and cake crumbs, leans into my cubicle, reaches around a corner and stuffs the plate in my garbage can. No look, no excuse me, no nothing.


Written on August 6, 2007 at 10:51 pm, by

One morning, I woke to discover I had given birth overnight.


Written on July 3, 2007 at 5:35 pm, by

Jameson stayed silent for the rest of the ride, but secretly brooded over the fact that Rickter didn’t think he smiled enough. He smiled. That was something he did.


Written on July 2, 2007 at 5:42 pm, by

What we heard wasn't wisdom. Friends made suggestions, dumb things. I didn’t hear them or listen. I snoozed on painkillers, lay on linen.


Written on July 1, 2007 at 5:52 pm, by

The boy who knew the answers was very short, almost as short as me, a short girl. He had to shave every day early though—he was that kind of short. I’m the other kind, the kind that had to shave late. I did everything late. I’m still waiting for a lot of things to happen to me.

Coaches’ Night Out

Written on July 1, 2007 at 5:49 pm, by

And there we were—the three of us—me and Regan on either side, the ugly girl in the middle, bobbing up and down with the music, her hips buried in Regan’s crotch, her hands on my shoulders. I spread my arms out like an eagle.

Five Stories Guest-Edited by Sam Lipsyte

Written on July 1, 2007 at 5:29 pm, by

Guest editor Sam Lipsyte on how he chose this month's fiction and why "bad" writers can always become good ones.


Written on July 1, 2007 at 1:54 pm, by

Heartburn raced up her throat. Janet’s stomach bloated out in response. She felt her chest open and prepared to become a tunnel of God.

Four Stories Guest-Edited by Dawn Raffel

Written on May 6, 2007 at 5:36 pm, by

I am delighted to present the works of four writers whose originality, intelligence and emotional acuity I deeply admire.


Written on May 6, 2007 at 5:29 pm, by

They'd been chosen for their stoic, no-nonsense demeanors. They weren't happy to be dead, and they'd all been taken quickly, violently, and much too young. None of them were much for conversation, but they found things to say to each other as they drove to and from assignments.

En Route

Written on May 6, 2007 at 5:25 pm, by

See how quickly a story complicates.

By Artifice Do We Shut Ourselves Away From Night

Written on May 6, 2007 at 5:18 pm, by

I am playing the shepherd’s game with the Shepherdess far underground, by the secret lake, beneath a cyclorama on which, suitable to the evening hour, the blue of afternoon is deepening to plum, while, one by one, stars appear according to a lighting scheme designed by the hotel’s Electrician. When in the world, he lit the stage for Max Reinhart and other directors of German Expressionism. “Life is an illusion,” I tell the Shepherdess, my hand rummaging in her blouse.

The Missing Thing

Written on May 6, 2007 at 5:10 pm, by

After a year, Phillip said they should try again. He told Muriel what she already knew—that such problems were all too common with first pregnancies. Pressing her hand, he repeated everything the doctors had told them.

Eminent Domain

Written on April 5, 2007 at 1:00 am, by

She turned and lifted her windbreaker in back to show me the 14-inch, priceless George Washington bayonet, stolen out of the history lab and notched down the back of her jeans, the dagger-like tip wedged down the crack of her butt. “Jesus,” I said, grinning, “You carried it like that?”


Written on March 23, 2007 at 12:00 am, by

"We’re not firefighters,” Francis said.

The skinny man laughed. “Did you hear that guys? They say they’re not firefighters,” he called to the other five men who hadn’t gotten up to greet us but were still sitting down, smoking and conversing. “Slater, you a firefighter?”

The man who apparently went by Slater smiled. “Hell no.”


Written on March 22, 2007 at 11:06 pm, by

"He asked that his ashes be dumped in the Gowanus," I told them all. I put the lid back on the urn very carefully. The woman in the red dress adjusted her sateen shoulder strap. The car salesman began dusting off his knees, then stopped. Little bits of my father could very well have been clinging there.

Four Stories Guest-Edited by Frederic Tuten

Written on December 30, 2006 at 1:37 pm, by

Was dying to write something witty and engaging and perhaps even interesting to introduce these four stories.


Written on December 16, 2006 at 6:07 pm, by

You never expect a zombie to lean over and bite you, so you don't really notice it before it's too late and the zombie apocalypse has begun. If you knew, you could easily outrun the slow moving ones. You could just walk a little faster and you’d be fine. The way they get you is that you don’t know that they are coming.

Big Truck

Written on December 16, 2006 at 6:01 pm, by

Once you've been with a guy who has a big truck, there's no going back. It's depressing but true, it's like falling off a cliff. May as well just slit your wrists, dig a hole, and write the obituary.


Written on December 15, 2006 at 6:18 pm, by

Her face was too white and the skin was thickened and shadowed and defined by a deep rich pink luster and her house is filled with moquette furnishings.

The Cat’s Meow

Written on December 15, 2006 at 6:13 pm, by

My daughter wears a jacket, like a book, but she is not a book, though she goes to the library. A book does not put other books under its jacket and walk away with them. My daughter tells me all the library books must be returned to the wood, and that is where she is taking them. She stacks them up into trunks and branches and tells them they are trees.

Confronting Talent

Written on October 15, 2006 at 11:07 pm, by

The essential thing is having a talent for having talent.

Birdsongs East of the Rockies

Written on October 8, 2006 at 3:55 pm, by

These sounds occupy many spaces, much like birds; there are the ones that rise upward and paint glorious arcs in the sky, and there are others that scale close to the ground or simply molt.

Important Men

Written on October 8, 2006 at 3:10 pm, by

The important man had the kind of face that would look no different without the mustache.

Karate Kid

Written on October 8, 2006 at 2:49 pm, by

"I thought it was going to be about this kid who was really good at karate, but he wasn't. The kid wasn't good at anything."

Working Up to the Dragon

Written on August 13, 2006 at 11:47 pm, by

“But you know the craziest thing, Steven?” he said. “I think the dragon was loose. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks because of the fog, but I swear there wasn’t a line attached to it. It swooped around the others, and then — whoosh! — it was gone."

Sliding By

Written on July 31, 2006 at 9:39 am, by

Not surprisingly, Abie did well. If he had a talent, it was that he could sell anything to anyone: porn to a priest, whiskey to a teetotaler.

Instructions for Sinning

Written on June 14, 2006 at 5:50 pm, by

Arturo had been the second to emerge, so perhaps it was he who was the intruder.

Facial Geometry

Written on May 23, 2006 at 11:32 am, by

I sat upright in the boat of freedom.

The Myth of Drowning

Written on May 23, 2006 at 11:10 am, by

"She couldn't swim. Or cramps. Maybe undertow. The undertow was wicked."

Six from In This Alone Impulse

Written on May 23, 2006 at 10:52 am, by

I’m down beneath it when a wood bump wakes me.

The Body is Still Warm

Written on April 30, 2006 at 7:41 pm, by

Our love was probably less sexual than total, Californian in its appreciation of the other’s physical being, an annexation of identity.

Two Doctors

Written on April 30, 2006 at 7:35 pm, by

Two doctors, married to each other. At first it was doctor and nurse skulking dark corridors in heat and finding empty gurneys, then doctor on doctor.

Trip to Saigon

Written on November 29, 2005 at 2:23 pm, by

I tell myself I bought the painting as a souvenir, a memory in the French sense. But really it is my consolation for not finding out Amy’s name.

The Waves

Written on September 27, 2005 at 12:50 am, by

It wasn't him they were so worried about. It was the half dozen grenades still wrapped to his wetsuit.


Written on September 27, 2005 at 12:48 am, by

My wife and I were kick-ass archeologists. Found all kinds of old, important shit out in the jungle, dealing with dangerous natives, applying for grants.

Tintin in the New World

Written on May 4, 2005 at 4:37 pm, by

“You must find me very queer then, Madame Clavdia. I’m sorry if I disconcert you,” Tintin said, his voice low, his eyes downcast.

The Name of the Father

Written on May 3, 2005 at 11:42 pm, by

Cowering behind an almost idiotic silence, I avoided looking into his eyes, gripped by the same fear that must have gripped Odysseus as he ran from the singular gaze of the Cyclops.

The Magic Box

Written on May 2, 2005 at 11:13 pm, by

Her parents were naked, one on top of the other. Their eyes were closed, their faces contorted; they were breathing loudly and moaning. She watched them for a few moments, terrified; then she walked quietly back to her cot and covered her face with the pillow.

The Emigrant’s Hand

Written on May 1, 2005 at 11:11 pm, by

You could look from one end to the other, but for me there was only Castro’s hand, it held me in a hypnotic grip.

Two Stories

Written on January 21, 2005 at 7:00 pm, by

Are your recollections really recent or do they reflect a remote past? You feel as if time is not time on the clock, and an aura of unreality surrounds you.

foreign gods, inc.

Written on January 20, 2005 at 8:47 pm, by

To be more specific, we own a Wolof god of justice and an Ewe goddess of fertility,”

Paying Dues and Drinking Booze

Written on January 20, 2005 at 8:44 pm, by

So I hear you’re going around saying you sold your soul to the devil . . .

Vital Information

Written on January 20, 2005 at 8:36 pm, by

Since it is very hot out at sea, sometimes someone comes down with a little fever.


Written on October 27, 2004 at 1:09 am, by

We sleep in sleeping bags on the beach, so in order to get close to you I have to slip out of mine first, then slip you out of yours.

Thirty-Seventh of Tales of The Nameless

Written on October 27, 2004 at 1:03 am, by

We went to a cafe I knew near the bookstore. I tried to please him by saying, they have excellent coffee here.