Fiction
The Bricks are Shrieking
Cal Jacobs sat in an uncomfortable rolling chair made of plastic and polyester, staring out the tenth floor window of his high-rise.
Fall Cranes
Back home, my sister’s bedroom overlooked our back deck. She could climb out her windowsill and drop down a few feet onto the wooden planks
A Photo Found in Black and White
Coincidence did not cause the young man’s cheek to share the curve of mine in his gray, buttered face. His finger-combed hair wet with grease,
After the Earthquake
At first, the dreams were jagged and bewildering, like migraine lightning or a Dali canvas.
Outwitting Mom’s Cable Company
The day after my mother’s funeral I called Comcast to cancel her cable TV account. A recorded message led me through a series of
The Lives of Invisible People
In the coffee shop watching all the invisible people. The Chinese cellist reading aloud without a sound, the two men nearby trying to flirt inconspicuously,