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 MoreGemphalonShe’s sitting behind the wheel of that old white F-150. She’s got that Mexican blanket thrown over the vinyl seat, so you can bear to sit on it in this heat. She tells me she has never driven stick before.
Read MoreFrankNew Ishvara, as a designated party city, maintained its celebrated image by making the streets dance 24/7. Tether slid easily through constricted masses of dancers glutting Nysta Street, his hands floating belt-high to brush knuckles lightly on the people he passed.
Read MoreNamasté PrimeI have a friend who can barely string a sentence together. She’ll place a word on a page, and then agonize over the resulting ripples as though the word were a stone thrown into a deep lake.
Read MoreThe Whispered ThingIt was afternoon, after school had ended for the day. Sash had been working in the hydroponics gardens, helping the adults with the delicate work of picking the buds. It was flowering time, and the ganja plants were at the end of their cycle.
Read MoreThe Secret Protocols of the Elders of ZionDo you remember when we were young, and we played at hunting Tigers in your backyard? There was a long rectangular pool, wrapped around it, summer-colored tiles, terra cotta, and a green gazebo with a swing hanging over one edge of the water by the pool shed.
Read MoreThe Tiger HuntI 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 SorrowNamir watches his wife and son as they sift baking salt-pans under the sun. They help gather the wet mounds of white clay that will be turned to dry powder later. If they see him, they will avert their eyes. If he comes any closer, they will flee in fear and alert the village.
Read MoreThe Widow and the Xir