Mrs. Chow heard the widow. She tried reading faster but kept stumbling over the same lines. She thought perhaps she was misreading them: "There comes, then, finally, the prospect of atomic war. If the war is ever to be carried to China, common sense tells us only atomic weapons could promise maximum loss with minimum…
Emma's tongue woke him, wending a slow trail downward from his chest and making his hair stand on end. "Mmmm, salty," she said, smacking her lips as his eyes fluttered open, and then the trail of moistness, cool against the morning air, continued down, while Flaubert, the cat, observed with oriental and detached curiosity, and…
A version of the modern mind: long drives, flat landscapes, trees close up (the present) or far against the horizon (the past) and fences strung tight as the future, middle distance. The effect of distance on the slow movement of landscape past the traveler, this variorum of the present: the family on long trips to…
In large measure, Paul Ruffin's short story, "The Fox," speaks for itself. It accomplishes what a well-made short story should, and it goes a step further and satisfies the reader with the sense that this particular author's window into his characters' lives tells its brief tale completely. I feel obliged, however, to endorse this story…
I met Noy Holland six years ago at a writers' conference at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa, where Barry Hannah wild man stories were still rife, though he had been gone from there a couple of years. The title of the conference was Voicelust, and Tuscaloosa, lush with boredom, marital breakup, dog racing, the…
The organ donor who smiles in the leathery dark of my wallet from a driver's license has already struck one woman— elderly, confused— who stumbled off a Somerville curb one January dusk and became a sickening thump, then a bleeding body cradled in the driver's arms until police and ambulance came. That old woman lived…
From where she was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands deep in the ball of dough in a green bowl, she could see him cross the creek beyond the lower pasture and angle up toward the house. He stopped to lean on the fence that bordered the remains of the summer garden, where the…
There are four of them: Rick and MaryAnn, Molly and Molly's father, MaryAnn's ex. His name is Art. He is a gangly man with a reddish beard and a face that is slightly off kilter. Even on the river he smokes constantly and flicks the butts of his cigarettes into the brown, swift water. They…
What can I learn from the hummingbird, a big thing like me? I hardly have time to study its flash, its momentous iridescence, before it disappears into the mimosa, sated with nectar. I admire the way the greenery trembles. I remember reading that this bird is never sated—its whole miniature life an exercise in digestion….
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