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Fiction
Fiction
The Carrion Heart
He came in on a royal blue 1928 Studebaker, the engine rattling, leaving a dusty cloud billowing into the desert air.
June 1992Fiction
Friday
I washed the dishes and the ashtrays and the silverware and the mugs, then rinsed them off and set them on the counter on paper towels to dry.
June 1992Fiction
Don’t Take It Personally
“Go on up there and sing the hell out of that song, Shiffler,” Marva said, and then she hugged me, and I could feel the underside of her breasts brushing my shoulders.
May 1992Fiction
Moving In
As I walk along these cold floors to your room I hear the sweep of my nightgown sliding like a breeze through my aching legs. I am tired, Hanna, worn out from carrying too many boxes into this borrowed home full of someone else’s love for the color green. Why are you calling me now?
May 1992Fiction
Luzianne
It’s funny how the absence of someone who wasn’t ever really there feels. It’s not like a hurt, it’s more like a bruise you don’t notice till you bump it. Then it stings. But only for a second, only for as long as it takes me to put my mind on happier things.
May 1992Fiction
A Rescue
I pushed myself back against the rock and felt around for a handhold. When I finally got myself anchored and half turned around, the first thing I spotted, not two feet from my face, was the shoe of Manny Spaggot: one dirty old sneaker all by itself upside down on the ledge.
April 1992Fiction
The Value Of Trees
The Pacific crashes into mountains here, with no introductory foothills, few beaches. Highway 1, the only north-west road in Big Sur, dips and swerves like a roller coaster. First you’re flying up in the redwoods, breathing eucalyptus and fog; straight below are tiny coves and river mouths. It’s a descent you feel in your stomach. Then you’re skimming along the beach under a kaleidoscope of sea gulls.
April 1992Fiction
Blue Avenue
We sit in the sunlit breakfast room of our apartment, in white terry-cloth robes that have our initials monogrammed in navy just above our hearts.
March 1992Fiction
Unarmed
Mac took twenty toothpicks out of his pocket and built a fort around his beer. He didn’t want to look at Eddie. He knew Eddie was headed for trouble.
March 1992Fiction
What Marvin Knows
Marvin had been watching the car, a red Ford Escort, drive by his house for perhaps twenty minutes. It was driven by a young fellow, probably one of the local college students.
February 1992
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