In her English class, Gillian was assigned an ode. She wrote to the jagged Zorro scar above her knee from the August night she taught Benny to surf in the rickety trailer camper their father towed. They’d been banished from… Continue Reading
Morning — it’s coffee and medication before thieving time from the new day. Albert shakes pills in his left hand like dice and looks out of the kitchen window to a yellow carpet of ginkgo leaves rimed with the first… Continue Reading
“We’re only here because we love you.” I come home from the grocery store to find my living room filled with family and friends. It smells like cake. But it’s not my birthday. “Sit down.” I would rather stand. In… Continue Reading
One Wednesday morning in the middle of March, Isaac Thomas arrived at his father’s house to find the elderly poet recumbent on the attic staircase, holding onto a Christmas tree. The tree, which Isaac recognized from his childhood, lay on… Continue Reading
On our first day back from Summer Break, my best friend Jimmy fell out of his chair clutching his knee, screaming. I laughed, believing this to be an out-of-place practical joke I was usually in on. Jimmy kept saying his… Continue Reading
Bob woke up early. In the shower, he rehearsed his ten o’clock presentation, a one-page map in his mind, a landscape he would negotiate for an hour and a half — Haines’ Iceberg Theory, the way he had been planning… Continue Reading
The day came lilac and hazy. Trees whispered sluggish, cotton greetings. A crow, from its high cedar perch, blasted a call to its mate three trees down. I sat on the porch and watched the birds fly over — smudges… Continue Reading