I am not ashamed to admit that I like being held with my back to her-her hands on my stomach, arms arrowing down my hips, fingers tracing the slightest underside of my jeans. I am not ashamed to admit that the absence of a face, the surprise of not being able to see, to predict…
from Citizens Review Then there was the police chief’s daughter, always bad news. Like tonight-another roasting summer night, air conditioners not quite keeping up-she sat alone at the bar, tapping her chipped fingernails against a glass. She took a last drag on the cigarette the fag gave her, a lousy, tasteless, low-tar wimp of a…
She draws. She draws a door. On the windowpane in breath. Breathes on the glass and draws. A door, an O spells polio. Six years old. She dreams. Walks with her father again. River of glass. To the river of glass collecting bits of this and that to examine later under the microscope. To hold….
How many times since Elise’s death had her husband, Mitch, said numbly, Oh Christ, I can’t believe she’s gone, I don’t know what to do. And Joan replied helplessly, squeezing his hand, I know! I know. Of course, there wouldn’t be one-a wake. The deceased hadn’t been Catholic. Hadn’t been brought up in any church,…
Betty doesn’t know how much longer she can stall Mrs. Beatrice. For more than a month, the poor thing has tried to schedule an appointment. She phones and chats as if nothing is the matter, as if she hasn’t a care in the world, and Betty hopes that just this once she won’t ask, but…
He was walking down the highway, Ohio SR 4 between Union City and Butler, singing at the top of his voice. He carried a green plaid suit in a clear plastic garment bag. He did not bother to hitchhike, to actually turn every now and then and lift a thumb. By the city limits sign…
We were both sitting in old-fashioned green metal lawn chairs that rocked back gently on metal tube frames if you wanted them to, and I did. I rocked as I sipped the strong, lemony tea up through the straw, hoping Mrs. Eelpout would tell me a story. She was sniffling, still getting used to the…
for Margaret At the edge of a river and the end of a road, a blue-eyed boy lived with his mother and five sisters. The women sewed wedding gowns for every girl from every town. But not one of the river woman’s daughters made a dress for herself. They were too plain, too fat, too…
The Fisherman’s Son: Teresa Pantaluna Once there was a poor but honest man, what we call un’omu di pazienza, a man of patience, who worked the whole day-day after day-in the unrelenting heat of the scorching sun, casting his nets out into the blue sea, then rowing his little boat wide and far so as…
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