We were seated at one of those pinhead-sized tables at the No Name Café, which barely fit two mugs and Natasha’s elbows. She was wearing a man’s navy-blue button-down shirt—mine, in fact—tucked sloppily into a pair of low-cost jeans. No make-up on her high cheekbones, the Tatar angles that some models would covet, only on Natasha the effect was of a louche doll…
Three miles from the outskirts of Ita Bena, Mississippi, the B’nai Brith Mitzvah-Mobile began to sputter like an indignant old uncle. Behind the wheel, Manny Manheim tried to ignore the sound, but it crept up the decibel scale until it began to shake the chassis of the van, and even deaf Mrs. Fishman sensed the problem…
Amy was conceived by two irresponsible individuals, Doug and Dora, during a commercial break in Superbowl XIII. For weeks afterwards, they did nothing except nurture a sense of impending gloom. Abortion was out of the question because it was never asked…
Does Your Fiction Show Your Age?
The Writer’s Chronicle, Dec 2015
All I said I unsay now,
Raveling webs of words,
But that is not what I meant at all
In order to mean something new,
Trying to re-verb sunrise,
Trying to undo the dew.
Or stirring the coffee slowly.
As if retracing a rune,
Hoping the sugar will undissolve,
Emerging pristine on the spoon.