Fiction

Once there was an honest man. He was a well driller. His eyes had filled with the first two wells of his life and after he could see through the surface of the earth to water awaiting his rig, not with his eyes but something like memory already there. What others called imagination the well…

He stood in the shadows as usual, as Charlotte had come to expect. He was a part, by now, of the quiet late afternoon street that gathered her in when the working day was over. It was dusk, early spring. The air was warmish, and as Charlotte rounded the corner she could smell the honeysuckle,…

During the winter of 1955, Chris took courses at Columbia. He came from Indianapolis; New York stunned him. Knowing nothing, he took a room in a railroad flat uptown near school: one room, 11 x 7, bed with a defeated mattress. It was cheap, and he could use the kitchen along with the three other…

It was because of the security measures at the airports – inspection of luggage and checking for metals – that I decided to take the train instead of the airplane. This way I could buy the Saturday night special here at home, and take it with me. I have no way of knowing how I…

– I just read a learned article on Nutrition and Behavior and my intelligence was severely dimmed, darkened and demonized. – I am trying, was trying to help Cynthia write a paper summarizing the last six months of our romance for the Ford Foundation. The coverup story is about Nutrition and Neurological Disturbances but I…

Report: Bonnie Brown-committed 1971, age fifteen. Lesbian, user of hallucinogenics, murder suspect. Note: Dr. Frond-This patient has refused to see any of our doctors since she was admitted three years ago. Because of her supposed potential violence she has to be on complete security. She recently requested to have an appointment with a doctor, and…

Houses. She has a gift for houses, she sees what they might be, and beneath her tanned and capable hands, they become what they might be, their possibilities are realized. When she house-hunts, which she has done too often to suit her, she stalks the right house, want ads circled, realtors in tow like native…

The Puritan, like a memento mori grinning from a mirror, is still among us. Relentlessly, he reminds himself and us of our longings to shatter his image with the possibility of rebirth, of conversion, of utter transformation. But now, after tens of generations of staring stubbornly into himself, as if into the white night of…

`Over there, Bart, on the other side of the street,' Ella said, pointing to a vacant house, its uncurtained windows pasted with placards. It was an evening in early spring and they were strolling back along Rathmines Road in the last of the light, going towards Ella's house, which was just off the main road….