It was a wonder the neighbors didn't complain. And I know it's irrational, maybe even paranoid, but I imagined the old guy upstairs must have heard me crying lately and was mocking my
...
[+]
Short Fiction
Short Fiction
The Secret Rules for Children of Priests
Rule Number 1: When asked about your parentage, give suitably vague answers.
It was Jimmy Doogan, a boorish kid with freckles spread like flak across his face, who had been the first to ... [+]
It was Jimmy Doogan, a boorish kid with freckles spread like flak across his face, who had been the first to ... [+]
Short Fiction
The Big Curve
The last time I saw my father he was wearing a toupee that looked like a year's worth of dryer lint, a worn-out Carolina t-shirt, the blue almost white now, green golfing shorts, and penny loafers
...
[+]
Short Fiction
The Cat Lady’s Lament
I never thought I would end up like this – like a tabloid horror story. Someday I bet I'll be discovered dead, here in my tiny, piss-scented apartment, being devoured by my seventy cats.
Thing is ... [+]
Thing is ... [+]
Short Fiction
My Father the Somniloquist
My father was a somniloquist; he only talked to me in his sleep. Lured at night by his one-sided conversation one room over, I would escape the cot I'd grown out of, gaze at my sleeping mother, and
...
[+]
Short Fiction
Francis Valencia Ortiz
For all his life, Frank had been at war with the willows. They sprouted in and around the stream, clogged the irrigation ditches, and choked off the water flow.
His land, a narrow plain between ... [+]
His land, a narrow plain between ... [+]
Short Fiction
Chekhov, the Old Man, the Seagull and the Crab
The old man is watching a seagull eviscerating a crab. The decapod crustacean probably was handsome in his youth but not any longer. Does he wish he could scream? Or is it better to be stoic and
...
[+]
Short Fiction
When the Door Is Blue
The second house on the left. If the door is blue, you're welcome. Red, you've come too early. Green, too late.
The meaningless chant comes to me whole. I can't remember where I've heard it, but ... [+]
The meaningless chant comes to me whole. I can't remember where I've heard it, but ... [+]
Short Fiction
The Pugilist in Repose on His Porch, Most Sundays
The moments of lucidity were rarer and rarer, but when they came, he regaled me with tales of swallowed teeth, basement brawls, and AIDS tests administered at midnight in ramshackle midtown health
...
[+]
Short Fiction
Borrowed Memories
Mamma always had a love for other people's possessions.
One of my earliest memories is walking to the park, my hand firmly tucked into hers. I was an impulsive child, and likely would have darted ... [+]
One of my earliest memories is walking to the park, my hand firmly tucked into hers. I was an impulsive child, and likely would have darted ... [+]