Fiction

Dolores meets the African boy in a tourist restaurant called The Yoghurt Inn. She is sipping a cold lemon juice, despite her vow to avoid drinks made with unboiled water, and trying to read The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. It is extremely hot and humid. Before she collapsed in the bamboo-filtered…

My feet were finally starting to get warm, so I knew that it would be time to get out soon. It always happened: as soon as the car heated up enough that you could no longer see your breath, it was time to get out. I looked up at the stone, hardwood and glass structure…

I went to the island that summer, at Webb's invitation, because he and the island were foreign to me, mysterious, not in dark or cunning ways, but with brilliance and light. The beach and his hair gleamed with gold, his eyes and the sea flecked fathomless blue, and the sun and his smile dizzied me…

Sunlight glimmered on the grass, glinted off the black tombstones ahead of Mrs. Kawaguchi. The cemetery grounds had been newly mowed for the Memorial Day weekend and were damp from yesterday's rain: her heels sank deeply into the earth. Wisps of grass clung to her shoes and she could feel the moisture seep into the…

There was a time when gas station attendants cleaned car windshields with soft blue paper towels. My dad inherited the company that made those blue paper towels, and shortly after the Arab oil embargo, due to poor financial planning, he went bankrupt. With no responsibilities in the towel business he turned to what really interested…

Barbarians were churning the farms into mud, polluting our wells. I had to escape. This was 1969. I was thirteen years old, hiding in the basement. The frayed plastic webbing of my father's green lounge chair tickled my legs, which were only half-shaped-curved here, blockish there. A photo from Life was taped to the window:…

They were living in Providence again after spending the summer in Wildwood, New Jersey. In Wildwood, Stephen worked on a fishing boat, a deep-sea charter named The Pied Piper. It was a bad name for a fishing boat since it made people think of rats in the water. Families and businesses hired the boat for…

It is two o'clock on a Friday afternoon in April. The willows along the river north of town are a tender grasshopper-green; patches of henbit and bitter cress sprout like tufts of hair in the winter-weary yards. In the basement of the library on Main Street, Miss Lucy McKewn, age thirty-six, assistant librarian, cleans up…

My father is telling me about Victoria again. I smile, nod, remind him I am a journalist and that I cannot just sit down and write a book about Victoria because he is sure it will make a best seller, full of romance, intrigue, and heartbreak. "It's rags to riches to rags again!" my father…