Fiction

In the cave, eons of time are marked in drops of water bled from stalactites. The old man guiding Phoebe is called Jean-Pierre. Short, hunched, bandy-legged, mostly toothless but still a smiler, he grabs Phoebe hard from behind, pulls her back into his chest, pointing with his penlight up into the cavern. There. Can you…

You know, there is this amazing thing that happens when you begin to create a common history with someone. Each detail is fascinating. You could just go to a mall and hang near the fountain in the atrium, and you’ll find yourself going over that time as if it were the Zapruder film. -Mark Leyner…

You say there’s no time like the present. But what is the present here? I’ve watched TV for ages and seen movies since I was three. TV’s daily life and movies are a communal fantasy. Today is in color, yesterday’s in black and white, and there’s no agreement about tomorrow. I hear music everywhere, and…

The room was alive. I knew it better than my body. The whole house sighed and shuddered, breathing inaudibly through its doors and windows. In and out, in and out I went, and one existence melted like snow into another. The sun was fierce and crazy. I cooled in green pools or under the shade…

At the Boston airport they were separated. Julien had to go through the line for foreigners. He was carrying his big black artist’s portfolio, five feet by three, zipped up. In it were plans for all his major architectural projects. He looked very respectable, if pale. Austin, of course, had been waved through Immigration, and…

At Tin Mill Canal the left headlight burned out. Darker now: eight eyes blinking at the nailing darkness. The sewage treatment plant and its sooty gray sewage-treated smoke rising openly into pinkblack air went grayer. Near the end now nothing to worry about-did you do that, Rootie?-you saboteur you sly bastard you it’ll take more…

Tires crunch against the crushed stone driveway, and a flash of headlights crosses Kent’s bedroom window, waking him from a light sleep. But he wasn’t asleep, he tells himself. Merely resting, eyes closed. Listening. Just as, when Rose was still in high school, he lay in bed after midnight and listened for the sound of…

Mr. Tao had outlived his wife but that didn’t bother him, he always said. In time he would catch up to her in heaven. Each day he waited calmly in his chair. The winter light moved square by square across the tile floor. On Friday afternoons when I came by he looked at me through…

The remarkable thing in dreams: people say what he never hears in waking. Fat. They say it to his face, not behind his back, or clear of earshot. The word is succulent in their mouths-Faaat-stretching out like the waist on his sansabelt pants. Nothing derogatory about it, only an unabashed honesty. On these mornings, for…