Fiction

I sat alone at the Shanghai Dumpling King on 34th Avenue in the same seat she always sat in.  I came on a Thursday afternoon the way she always did…

I am six years old and I go to Yeshiva and my name is Moshe. In summer there is an old woman who lives in the radiator in the living room of my apartment.

The place I saw you. How you were walking, squinting, through the slowly-becoming-blinding dawn light. How you carried a large red and white tote bag.

Out of a mall. I have a feeling that I forgot to take something. Something that Lynn crucially needs and I’ll have to visit the mall again. But no.

Staring up at a velvet black sky, we watch millions of stars spark and swirl. On a quilt, soft and worn with years of washing and dreaming, we speak of the fate of humanity…

I have a theory that the nicest rooms, those with the best views, go to the sickest patients. If my theory is correct, I’m fucked. My room is on the second floor…

Chick Ernest had been chatting with other parents when his son nearly died. The basketball season ended around Thanksgiving and the Sharks went to Kat’s Kradle…

Neal Bickley had thought that a public ass-chewing couldn’t be that bad. Watching the chairman skewer board meeting presenters…

Our mother had a tattoo. We didn’t see it until we washed her before the undertaker came. It was two tattoos, in truth. Two brown dots, one above her right breast, one below.