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The art teacher’s wife left him, and their two sons, for another woman two years ago.
It’s the future. It’s been the future for a while.
First we filled the holes, each only nine or so millimeters wide. The maintenance staff had tools on hand.
When people ask me something, I’ve a principle: always say yes.
He came back from the war with a little bit of money and the helmet of a man he had killed with a knife in a burnt-out house
We were the sons and daughters of busy working men and women who couldn’t afford crèches, of half-lost souls, of feckless unemployed folks who had some betting or drinking or TV-watching planned on our schoolless Wednesday afternoons.
All birds around here were dead, and we stared, slack-jawed, at their piled carcasses along the road.
But more of the chicks survived than you thought, and dozens upon dozens of them now scurry around the room, shitting everywhere.
Six candles on the chocolate cake, one for each of Sherman Moon’s years, and as Mrs. Moon carries the cake into the dining room, Mr. Moon says, “Don’t tell us your wish, son.”
It’s not that I didn’t try to help. When Annemarie flailed, sleeping, I was the one who always shook her until she sat up, sheet-tangled, still half-caught in her dream.
Two dung beetles leaned back on their hindquarters atop a napping tortoise . . .
Baby turtles are hatching in my house.
I hunt and kill and butcher with arrow and sword, hound and falcon, ear and arm. I sight and take aim.
In the spring, the dogs stopped barking. By then our windows were held open with tomato cans or washed-out jars of jelly
He mounts the shaking platform, lays the weight of his fingers on the delicate wings.
He told me to mute the Taxi TV.
It’s twenty degrees and my toddler Iona’s parka is so stiff she’s liable to fall, so I carry her up the steps onto the green metro bus. She squirms until I put her down, then stomps her boots and grins at her freedom while I pay the fare. She’s happy when she can get what […]
Mariela waited for the American boy in his bedroom. The bedroom had been Mariela’s once—hers and Hector’s—
In this bizarro teenage summer, outdressing the park rangers had become a means of rebellion.
On the terrace of the Presidential Palace you lay glued to the scope for less than an hour before you have to take the shot. Tourist or terrorist: It was always going to be your call. You are applauded for taking the shot and saving the nation, although you are not allowed to rise off […]
Her profile said she LOVED CATS and HATED MEAN PEOPLE, but she looked so sexy in her profile photos.
A head on collision, license plates smudging together. He was smiling before the steering wheel warped his jaw . . .
Ma always said that my father hadn’t been a real soldier.
In those days, I liked watching bus crowds.
Shit tends to disappear.