If you don’t like these stories, you should’ve read the ones I didn’t take. Even though that’s not accurate, it’s probably the only thing I could say in this space to truly arrest the attention of the curious soul bent on simply reading a few good stories (which, in fact, he/she will find here). But,…
Peter had always been more than thoughtful in not pressing her about her past, and Beatrice was sure it was a reason for her choice of him. Most men, coming of age in a time that extolled openness and disclosure, would have thought themselves remiss in questioning her so little. Perhaps because he was a…
1 Honey’s sweetness thins in steaming tea; a drop of honey thickens to amber on the pantry counter. Oh, the sweetening dank, the dark I inhale: come on the sheets on which my lover naps. A rolled-up paper uncoils in a whisper: come is a rose is a star is a monster….
For more than a year, I thought Roman had disappeared from my life. If not for our very adequate postal service, he might have, but the last week of August, I open the mailbox to find an envelope that has been stamped: Moved No Forwarding Address, with an arrow drawn to the return address, tiny…
When, how far back? When I played in a formal park, Grandmother watching from a bench, the chalky whiteness of the gravel glistening in the sun wiping away all that passed before me, indistinct summonings in the blaze, by contrast the deep shade from trees so dark I ran out from there fast as I…
She was my Sunday school teacher when I was just seven and eight. He was the newly hired pastor, an albino, alarming sight with his transparent eyelashes and mouse-pink skin that looked like it might hurt whenever she caressed his arm. Since Eva was her name, to my child’s mind it made great…
We were sipping grappa, watching The Tragic Stiletto of Trabzon on an old Zenith TV in a suburban public square outside of Patras. Though it was dusk, and the images were murky, the film looked familiar, like a dim photo resolving in its pan. My wife and I were trying to read the lips of…
Chrome made echoes of the room. He closed the door. It closed again, in accidental mirrors, warping On the cylinders for cotton, Gauze, and was comical, not comical. He closed the door, and let me watch him with his hands. I watched him wash his impressive hands In his office. Did I…
“Si la uva está hecha de vino, quizá nosotros somos las palabras que cuentan lo que somos.” —Eduardo Galeano, El libro de los abrazos for Jane Miller It’s the mind that marshals everything into neat sequence in retrospect—subject, verb, predicate—fooling us into believing words don’t dig their tangled roots in us. But rooting around we…
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