Fiction

Doyle's reflection scintillated wetly from the shop windows as he passed along the Boulevard du Montparnasse without pausing, as he frequently did, in front of one of Hemingway's old haunts – the Coupole or, across the street, the Dome. He turned right on the Boulevard Raspail and walked slowly, nearly shuffling, toward L'alliance Francaise and…

Some drunkards drink themselves as sober as this liar lied herself true. I lied to my parents about where I'd been. To my boss about where I was going. To my friends about my past – creating accomplishments, creating failures, denying experiences, admitting fantasties. To strangers I was one of quadruplets, an orphan, a twin,…

The painter Alex Alexander was sitting in his tower studio in the old Hall of the Arts watching the A.M.'s slow progress toward a January high noon, and the students below more slowly trudging off toward enlightenment, when they brought him the message that his dealer had called from New York. "You're made, Alex!" Philbert…

Gloria stepped carefully out of bed. The floor was rough and wooly under her feet. She went into the bathroom. She slid her pajama bottoms down and set herself neatly onto the toilet seat. As she went she looked at the crotch of her pajama bottoms. They were only faintly stained with yellow. Gloria flushed…

excerpt from a novel in progress (. . .Anna Maye Potts is thirty-six, fat, unmarried; since her mother's death some twenty years ago, she has been keeping house for her father and working days in a nearby candy factory. Now her father is dead too, and her younger sister, Mary, who is married and has…

The boy sat down next to them without being asked by Mrs. Tollerson to do so. He had on a black nylon bathing suit that was too tight, and his face was so tanned it almost covered up some pimples Mr. Tollerson spotted next to his nose. But his legs were white above the knee,…