I like to say. I must like to; I say it all the time, leaving parties early, acting put-upon. My little boy sucks blood out of my social life, friendships draining like my hopes to pitch for the Yankees, or find important fossils in my yard. Still, I love knowing my son won’t let sleep’s…
When Anna Green walked into the ballroom for the twentieth reunion of Surfview High in Los Angeles, she did not predict that she would fall in love with Warren Vance. She joined her classmates, in their finery, penned by the hotel"s large glass windows, the sky outside black and the cars on the freeways arranged…
The white mouse went first, pink eyes, pink feet, then the ace of hearts, the quarter and half-dollar, the pigeon, the cat, once the dog, who didn’t howl for a good hour, wherever he was, our old man’s hands faster than our eyes as we lined up on the picnic table seat to…
The intern’s wand assayed your abdomen with wavelengths sounding the nocturnal pool she swam within pale cave dweller tipped down to pass between existences asleep forehead globed beneath her body’s question There she is Everything’s okay except the blood a sudden flux enriched your gown tear in the placental wall Nothing wrong the intern said …
The men and women of the Causon Creek Church of God with Signs Following were expecting families from congregations all over the South to attend their annual homecoming services, some from hundreds of miles away. Most would cross the Tennessee border from North Carolina, Virginia, and Kentucky, though a few were coming from states…
a novel excerpt She lost me as the nation was losing Richard Nixon, good riddance, whose head bobbled on his neck like a newborn’s, as mine would have, but whose five o’clock shadow was like the truth coming out. A loss to no one but himself. She sought for me early in the Ford…
1. In the yard of the children’s prison the fruit on the solitary tree is blue shriveled beyond recognition At the turn of the last century the inmates (aged 7 to 13) pickpockets petty thieves & vandals ate gruel from wooden bowls and slept on iron cots gazing down from their cells at that tree…
Mrs. Venkataraman had never seen a black man before. There they were in the arrival lounge at Murtala Muhammad Airport, with their coal-black skins and eyes, pawing through their passports, looking for the residence visas her husband’s university had obtained for them, shaking their heads and laughing loudly, saying Eh-hehn Eh-hehn over and over again….
The song of someone like me begins on the penny whistle. A few notes, just a few, up and down. The bass line comes in, then the lead and second guitar. Brushstrokes on the snares. And then the singer, Lord, then the singer steps up. What voice could slip this backdrop? Only the rise and…
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