He wrote me into a story again. I told him to stop doing that, after we broke up. In fact, it was one of the reasons we broke up. I mean, being a muse is all well and good, until you actually become one.
Read MoreA Life in FictionsThe call came mid-sun. It was like a bell, or a chime, something Gemphalon had never heard before. He put down the piece of slate he’d chosen for the roof of his house and looked east.
Read MoreGemphalonI sit in one of the cafés in Szent Endre, writing this letter to you, István, not knowing if I will be alive tomorrow, not knowing if this café will be here, with its circular green chairs and cups of espresso. By the Danube, children are playing, their knees bare below school uniforms.
Read MoreThe Rapid Advance of Sorrow
CUE: Me running for my life. The zombies didn’t really chase you, as much as they loomed menacingly. There was something in their demeanor that signaled they were the zombies—that they were changed and not like the rest of us.
Read MoreCUE: ChangeThe waiter’s name is Valentine. He has long, slim fingers, and he writes down my order instead of pretending to commit it to memory. I like that, his pen on the paper bringing forth one simple thing about me. My lunch. Just a tiny fragment of information.
Read MoreValentinesThe universe began 13.7 billion years ago as a singularity of infinite density and temperature. It will expand and fragment until the fragments become singularities of their own and repeat the process. The grand unified theory is a lot closer to “it’s turtles all the way down” than scientists guess.
Read MoreIn Search Of
Poets and sages like to say that there is clarity in certain death. That a calm resignation settles over the nearly deceased, and they embrace the inevitability of the end of life with dignity and grace.
Read MoreGhosts of New YorkHe’s come out of his shop now, fussing with gloves that look expensive, a match to his long glossy overcoat. Glare from the streetlight glints on his bare scalp. Above that light, impotent clouds wall away the moon, render the sky a blank carbon sheet.
Read MoreThe Button BinWhat I am about to tell you is a fairy tale and so it is constantly repeating. Little Red Riding Hood is always setting off through the forest to visit her granny. Cinderella is always trying on a glass slipper. Just so, this story is constantly re-enacting itself.
Read MoreRats