Before Norman went to college, he’d never been out of the Bronx, and even during his undergraduate years he rarely ventured south of the City College campus. It was an uncle, his mother’s older brother, who found him the lead. … Continue Reading
Arthur Norris went back to the shed to fetch gasoline for the mower. In the twilight the straight tracks of newly shaved grass looked like different shades of ribbons spilled from the spool. “Arthur!” he heard her calling. She was… Continue Reading
For their 60th “diamond” anniversary, Martine booked an old-fashioned gondola ride down Broadway, starting Uptown. Doctor Alcuna had warned her not to get her hopes too high for the occasion, that the Memantine™ and Donepezil™ still showed no sign of… Continue Reading
From across the street, Phil watched the wind blow Stanley’s few downy, white hairs horizontal. It yanked open his union-logoed jacket and flapped the sides like the wings of a flightless bird. Stanley’s son — Bobby? Billy? Barry? Something like… Continue Reading
The bridge to my mother erodes in word-shaped chunks: broken sentences and hesitant pauses. Frustration traces the downward curve of Ma-Ma’s mouth, a bow with no arrows left to fire. “Na ge,” she says. Brittle fingers tug at her hair,… Continue Reading
The Prince rushed in, closed the glass door behind him, and stomped his boots. Snow melted into his black jacket and gray hair. He breathed the warm air of the greenhouse in great mouthfuls. It tasted sweet and earthy, but… Continue Reading
Doris is in her seventies, something she always thought could only happen to old people. She is becoming increasingly forgetful and is beginning to worry about it. Her main problem seems to be in recalling names. Today, the view from… Continue Reading
The yellowed lampshade on the bedside table goes bright, goes dim. It buzzes, threatens death before settling into a weak, cool glow. Rory says, “I remember when we were eighteen.” She stares at the ceiling, recalling. “We ran through the… Continue Reading
“God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.” —J.M. Barrie The question isn’t, can she do it? She knows she can, just as that every morning her son wakes, she hopes it will be his last. Such thoughts are evil,… Continue Reading
Alb and I always call in for a pint after work on a Friday, our ritual to celebrate another week’s work. I mean nobody likes a dead end job in insurance sales but times are hard and money’s tight. I… Continue Reading