Fiction

It’s hard to stop looking for something without simultaneously giving up hope. I don’t know how. Buddhists learn the art of nonattachment, or they say they do. But have you ever seen a Buddhist lose his car keys? I have, and they’re just like the rest of us. Now that I was in my thirties,…

On that night, years back, we were up until the cardinals started calling. The first one lit out through the leaves before the air went from warm to hot. I remember that the call sounded lonely in the quiet of early morning. But soon, just before it got light, many of them were fussing in…

In a deep socket of an empty acre lot in South Jersey, a wiry boy with dark eyebrows, burnished blond hair, and thick lenses in his glasses is clearing pathways through the milkweeds, trying to preserve as many of the leafy, muscular stalks as he can. He’s working harder than he’s worked in weeks, so…

There was no house yet, just a wellhead where the house would be, under an overturned box to keep the sand out. Clay was building the house, and it would be one to live in for a long time, so they were trying to get everything right. From the passenger seat, Susan watched him wedge…

1. I am my father’s sidekick, Mutt to his Jeff, Costello to Abbott, Tonto to the Lone Ranger. I am his pal, his fall guy. I follow him like a shadow. He calls me “Me Too.” Sure there’s a comic strip character named Me Too, but I am too young to know that. I fall…

Since they left Houston that summer, Hugh and his mother had traveled in a long, slow circuit as far north as Amarillo, then worked their way down through El Paso and San Antonio and Austin, seeing sights Hugh had no desire to see, and in which he doubted his mother had any real interest, either….

from Seven Mediterraneans The dreamer had heard what she thought was a rumor about someone she didn’t know wanting to have sex with her. This after several months of trying to have sex with Janine, who was in the painting group-they all took turns posing for gesture drawings-right before the weather changed to rain along…

The host is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare; Caoilte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling Away, come away: -“The Hosting of the Sidhe,” W. B. Yeats My mother spoke with the dead. After the doctors declared her cancer-free, she could feel and hear their ghosts, see them as clear as…

He wasn’t her first lover, or her best lover, or even her lover at first. He was too gangly, for one thing. There was nothing but leg connecting his chin to his shoes, so it was awkward for her always to be craning up to look at him. Except when he sat down; then, because…