Fiction

Alvin Boudreaux had outlived his neighbors. His asbestos-siding house was part of a tiny subdivision built in the 1950’s, when everybody had children, a single-lane driveway, a rotating TV antenna, and a picnic table out back. Nowadays he sat on his little porch and watched the next wave of families occupy the neighborhood, each taking…

All week the heat has been killing. Foolish to walk the distance to the credit union even so early in the morning, imagining you can beat the worst of it. Think of the walk back, the pavement baking, not a tree for blocks. Foolish-aKenneth word. Don’t be foolish, Marilyn, take the Volvo. This, as so…

I am not ashamed to admit that I like being held with my back to her-her hands on my stomach, arms arrowing down my hips, fingers tracing the slightest underside of my jeans. I am not ashamed to admit that the absence of a face, the surprise of not being able to see, to predict…

from Citizens Review Then there was the police chief’s daughter, always bad news. Like tonight-another roasting summer night, air conditioners not quite keeping up-she sat alone at the bar, tapping her chipped fingernails against a glass. She took a last drag on the cigarette the fag gave her, a lousy, tasteless, low-tar wimp of a…

She draws. She draws a door. On the windowpane in breath. Breathes on the glass and draws. A door, an O spells polio. Six years old. She dreams. Walks with her father again. River of glass. To the river of glass collecting bits of this and that to examine later under the microscope. To hold….

How many times since Elise’s death had her husband, Mitch, said numbly, Oh Christ, I can’t believe she’s gone, I don’t know what to do. And Joan replied helplessly, squeezing his hand, I know! I know. Of course, there wouldn’t be one-a wake. The deceased hadn’t been Catholic. Hadn’t been brought up in any church,…

Betty doesn’t know how much longer she can stall Mrs. Beatrice. For more than a month, the poor thing has tried to schedule an appointment. She phones and chats as if nothing is the matter, as if she hasn’t a care in the world, and Betty hopes that just this once she won’t ask, but…

On his way home from the Holland Park Underground Station, James Briggs had a curious sense of event in the windless, autumn evening. The house in which he lived with his wife and their one-and-a-half-year-old son was in a square, and in the garden of the square a fire was burning, the high, cracking flames…

I met my best pal, Phil, about ten years ago through our mutual wife. I was a young actor on the rise then, a couple of years out of Julliard, I’d done two seasons of Biloxi Blues (Broadway and a touring company) and although I was raised as a nice Jewish boy, I kept getting…