Category: Fiction

Kind of square, kind of squat—that’s how she perceives herself. Compact—each part of her body a modest excrescence kept within a reasonable radius, magnetized by the center, enamored with gravity. All at reach, her body, her mind… a small village where everything is in walking distance, cozy and snug like five fingers. Nondescript as well, … Continue reading “Loops”

We first saw her on that mini-season of the Real World that only ran on MTV3. The one in Nashville where they all worked at the Ford plant and drank Budweiser at honkytonks? We were in junior high and we just knew that we’d stumbled upon something special, only for us. No one else at … Continue reading “Here to Make Friends”

My mother is fat.  She is not plump.  She’s not heavy or stout, slovenly or rotund.  Just fat.  A fat fucking pig.  Just go and see her or, better yet, watch her eat and you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.  My father?  An obese, tallow-faced whale who breathes like a humpback breaching, and takes … Continue reading “Moses and Ronald Reagan are Beautiful”

Giving his spouse carte blanche in matters of interior decoration had year in and year out proven to be a wise move. Paul Hirschberg knew that no matter the trends of the day, his dependable little Rose would err on the side of light and airy. The prospect of accessorizing a room would bring fleeting … Continue reading “Recover Me”

The smiling man at the coffee bar is attentive and careful as he pours pumpkin spice flavored coffee. But he’s got a gold ring already and when she smiles back, it’s not her best work. Let’s be straight here: Abigail Newton is lonely as hell in this city—one that’s got the work she needs but … Continue reading “Abigail Newton Goes to Church Alone Again”

My uncle Ivan was a communist. He said if we’d read the books he’d read, we’d all be communists. My mother told us kids not to even give him the satisfaction of looking at his book case. My aunt handed around a plate of freshly baked pogácsa, all exactly the same size. My uncle owned … Continue reading “The Manifesto of the Scones”

Paul didn’t stir when Sheila got up or when she found Matt asleep in the hallway. It was sometime after midnight, according to her bladder. Matt was sitting with his back to the wall, head on his knees, in his underwear without even a tee shirt, right beside the door to the room he was … Continue reading “Schrodinger’s Raccoon”

The single dead bulb in the garage rattled as the blizzard tore its nails against the siding. Colton sat on his old metal toolbox near the propane heater and hugged the throw blanket tightly around his shoulders. Every forecast that week had made it seem like the storm would be a laugher for the entire … Continue reading “Whiteout”

I wonder what my father thought of himself after he left, given the one rule he emphasized the most was never leaving a runner stranded on base. He’d seen it happen plenty. Norm was a catcher, and his knuckles were broken and rehealed—gnarled like giant washers around his fingers. His fingers were long, with wide … Continue reading “Losing Clemente”

If I was a different kind of girl my face would be on every tabloid. Every evening news story, every investigative report, every feed people skim past on their way to their morning inbox. I would have a name; I would occupy space in the public imagination, if I was the right kind of girl. … Continue reading “A Girl in the Dark”