Fiction

The man lying on the hospital bed knows that he is dying. Beside him, the heart monitor stutters, falters, returns to a steady pace once more, each time the rhythm slower.

Markus stood by the closed gate. The airport had been busy that day. He had arrived in plenty of time, gone to the lounge, read the paper.

I stopped ignoring him on a frozen February morning. It was the kind of Monday I pictured postal carriers calling in sick. Five seconds out the front door of my apartment…

A heavy weight presses down on my chest. It feels like a chasm is forming under the breastplates covering my heart. I take a moment…

The Sunday I first went to the quarry was after I made Tito choose. He’d been back in the States a few weeks. This is what his mother…

I arrive late at my writers group, stepping into the quiet swish of pens on paper, of fingers tapping on keyboards. I love that look of concentration…

Two days before the bicentennial and Madeline Harper’s tenth birthday, someone rowed an eighteen-foot Statue of Liberty constructed entirely of Venetian blinds…

“You need to choose which memories you want to delete,” the doctor said as she clasped her hands behind her head and tried to appear calm and confident…

A chick on a board. Rise, drop, hot wheels singin’, the wind in her hair. Ready for Scarecrow man – break on your board, slide under his skinny arm.