And Abraham picked up the knife to slay his son I have lived in tents and often, at midday, have I parted the tent-clothes and gone inside with the light of day so blinding my eyes that my wife spoke to me out of darkness, saying, Take this dish, and eat. I have walked among…
Ask most writers about their craft, and they’ll likely talk about character, setting, and narrative arc—the simple rise and fall of dramatic action. Ask Antonya Nelson, and she’ll surprise you with the structures and schematics she refers to as shape. Her story "Loaded Gun," for instance, tells of a teenager’s mounting frustration with her family…
Mason Salisbury and his son, Moreau, were hunting by Little Sandy Creek several miles from where the stream ran through town and powered the Salisbury mill. Father and son carried old fowling pieces and hadn’t brought the dogs; they weren’t hunting so much as talking. Moreau was home from seminary in Cazenovia. He hadn’t wanted…
However closer it might seem to art— the brightly colored bills, the graceful figures about to waltz off heavy coins—it pays for the gasoline, the decaf and baguette. To use a public toilet costs two francs, a little less than what I give the man without a leg whose sign I understand (another universal language,…
In what turned out to be the last year of his life, my father slowly lost touch with the real world. There were persistent but not unpleasant hallucinations, such as seeing red birds in an empty sky, or hearing a nonexistent ringing telephone, so that in the middle of a silent stretch he’d suddenly look…
Maybe the whole thing could be accounted for by the year, 1971: how we—well, I—woke at three in the morning with a funny sensation that something, somebody, was missing, and wandered out to the living room where my childhood sweetheart, the love-of-my-life Richie, was supposed to be sleeping on the couch. He was gone. He…
for Flavio The plucked strings tremble & traverse the heart, back through that other strong muscle singing blood & guilt. Press a finger down & the message changes into blame & beauty, into the scent of a garden rising from peat moss & brimstone… the frets & shaped neck worked & caressed into a phantom…
The rain is making this rented tuxedo smell like a wet animal. My sister Rachel and my ex-girlfriend Maggie are standing outside the car while drops fall lightly on their newly done hair and their pink satin bridesmaids dresses. They’re looking at me like I should be unlocking the car, not staring at it from…
This morning, I turned down Mozart to listen to a mockingbird perched on a wire outside my window. Poor Mozart. Dead, he was much the worse for comparison. But as soon as I lowered the music, the mockingbird flew. He had been listening to Mozart.
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