My daughter’s dog glares at me from its spot in the corner of the kitchen. His nose, black and oily as the night ocean, twitches. I stuff a crust of yesterday’s leather toast in my mouth, gagging down its dryness and grab the leash.
The obese beast sets back on its haunches, going, “Oh [...]

Buttoning your shirt, your shoulders palsied, your fingers shaking as if from fright or Parkinson’s, you remember an afternoon in August, the sun scalding, berry picking done for the day, Uncle Jack handing you a bottle as he swayed like some dark shadow on the surface of the sea, saying, “Go on, take a swig. [...]

He kept trying to tell her that it was the markets that were nervous, nothing more. He was organized, a planner, anal retentive yet pragmatic.
They were at a French restaurant eating duck when he popped the question, but before she answered she gagged and said that the meat was too greasy to eat.
On the [...]

At the grocery store a little boy points at me and says, “She’s fat.”

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She wanted to lose. She was tired of winning.

They were looking for peace, not majesty, yet the child had its own notions.

My wife says I’ve been sleepwalking again. Next she asks, “When’s Ben coming?”

The police show up at my apartment because this is the address they have

Doug left me this morning. I searched the entire apartment for a note and found his message on the answering machine, Doug’s voice hoarse and whispery, yielding nothing but facts.

Imagine this: a skinny eight year old dancer, who doesn’t know she is one, discovering her gift by breaking the embrace of gloved hands and twirling–spinning and spinning and spinning–atop the wet grave of her just-buried grandfather.