The War Watchers

The War Watchers

The war goes on. It seems endless. But it should end some day, because everything ends some day. And this war is something. And something is included in everything. There is something in everything. She opened the door a crack. “The war will end,” I said....
Persimmons

Persimmons

Harada would not look beyond the kitchen’s pass once Takahashi’s presence in the small restaurant had been announced. The chef’s typically quiet manner turned more quiet still as he bent closely over his knife. His sous-chefs danced around him with pots of hot water...
A Chicago Story

A Chicago Story

She is up against the wall in the kitchen, pushed against the world’s smallest refrigerator, one hand on the world’s smallest oven, bright hot red. She is saying something. What is she saying? The apartment is crowded. Who are these people. All these people. She is...
The Gun Room

The Gun Room

The gun room has two doors, or three–compare the first, if you please, with the father’s body–and a table painted gray. The parlor wallpaper, from afar, through the garden window, or as it appears in a photograph, torn out one morning from this book or...
Lunch

Lunch

Mother packed the box with food for Father’s lunch. The box was very old. There were birds painted on its cover but over the years the paint had been rubbed away, so the birds were almost transparent. I thought that was what ghosts of birds must be like–smudges...
Pink Blood

Pink Blood

Linda Selig opens her hope chest and reaches inside, fumbling beneath the linens and quilts until she finds the plastic baggie full of baby teeth. She winces while shifting her knees over the hardwood floor and then closes the chest in a cedar-laced sigh. There are...