When I was a child I knew a wonderful truth: there was only one red-breasted robin in the world, his name was Jack, and we shared a quiet friendship. When I woke up in the morning and looked out the window, Jack peered back from …
The cello case was old. Its black lacquered wood, once polished to a shine, was now dulled by dozens of scratches and scuffs. Frayed duct tape covered a long split along its front. A weathered leather strap was wrapped around it like a belt. It …
“You say your name is Baltimore, huh?” She nodded, once. The barrel of his gun, staring at her, intently. “Well, what kind of a name is that?” “Not my real one.” She mumbled. “What?” “Baltimore is not my real name.” “Well, what’s your name then, …
1. As Julixa was frying an egg for lunch, she had a vision: Torches flickered in her peripheral, the ground dropped away on all sides like stairs on a pyramid. Hands flew up to her face. In them, a halved coconut. Filled with blood. There …
I stood in the darkness, pondering the purpose of the towering barrier. Was it to keep something out or to keep something in? Both, said a voice. I spun around, looking for the source. I saw no one upon reflection; that made sense. I hadn’t …
There we were. Trapped between reality and make-believe. The whole situation seemed to defy logic. Then again, that’s childhood. It’s fascinating how things like perspective and imagination change with age and time. As a little kid, I was a dreamer. My imagination was always …
Father, to Mother, enthused, “Envision a polyvinyl banner, quick-printed and shipped overnight, hung from the Camelot Castle monkey bars of our community park. The banner will read: ‘Happy Birthday Son, You’re Three!’ The font must be perfect! Not so perfect as our Son, but the …
Barney Rudolph was a solitary man. This is what he silently said in his private story of self. Alienated, a loner, lone wolf, an outsider. Always an outsider. First, there was the fact that he was adopted. Mr. and Mrs. Rudolph were a simple, loving …
Outside, rumble. Inside, rumble. The rumble of the jackhammers. All day, every day. It comes from the outside but shakes everything inside, down to the bones of the boyfie and me. It’s the street. It’s always changing. It’s the color of olives one day, pine …
Last night the hotel was like a living organism, the hallways warm and dimly lit in embryonic crimson. We wandered together down corridors lined with low couches on which strangers reclined, conversing in murmurs. Earlier, from across a crowded room, I saw you talking …
