Fiction

The shelled corn bin was like a huge box over the alleyway of the corncrib. Millions of crisp and yellow corn kernels, ten feet deep, and ten feet square at the top. The boys liked to dive into it, letting it sting their hands and faces as they squirmed until they almost disappeared into the…

Listen to me, said the boys’ grandfather. When I was a boy, you had to be smart or you could get hurt. Their grandfather had already sat down in his old swivel chair. He lit one of his cigars and took a big puff. The boys made themselves comfortable on the floor. We milked by…

Libby killed herself just before the holidays, and so the flamingo stayed where it had been hidden-in the rotten shed at the edge of our yard. I’d often sneak out to look at it. The flamingo seemed incredibly big, its wooden neck reaching up past the shelves of potting soil and garden shears. It stood…

Me and my neighbor Frank Main used to get along real good till the dog thing. We got two kids each, only a year apart in school, and his wife and my wife take turns sometimes driving carpool. I took his mail in every day for two weeks while they had their vacation, and once…

She hears the bear outside her dream-the charred corpse driving her away from a flaming city-before she wakes up. She has never seen a bear, except in a zoo, but she does not extricate her body from the boiling quilt or crawl to the window. Midnight in this national forest feels dangerous to her, too…

We were stopped at a red light on Pac-Highway just past Sports World and this car full of girls pulls up on our left side. This was late on a Saturday night. It was me and Dave and Mike, and Mike says we should race them. So when the light turns I gun it and…

It was Thanksgiving Day and hot, because this was New Orleans; they were driving uptown to have dinner with strangers. Ella pushed at her loose tooth with the tip of her tongue and fanned her legs with the hem of her velvet dress. On the seat beside her, Benjamin fidgeted with his shirt buttons. He…

These are the first words I’ve written since J. fell down the stairs, unless you count lists. I have lists in my pockets, lists tacked to the bulletin board above my desk. Small lists on Post-its ruffle like feathers against walls and bureaus. Chunky baby food, milk, Cheerios. Diaper Genie refills. Huggies overnight diapers. This…

I have a recurring dream in which I open the front door to my father’s house, and he has a slanted block of wood, the doorstop, in his hand. He thinks I’m trying to break in. Without his glasses, in the unlit hallway, he thinks I’m a burglar. He’s going to stop me with a…