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...
From Inside

From Inside

The girl inside the black bear costume, whose community service job it was to jump out from behind a tree and terrify little kids at the Forest of Mystery fund-raiser for the nature center, had been stumbling around in the same sweaty suit every night for two weeks....
Restoring the Confederacy Theater

Restoring the Confederacy Theater

Dad’s a manwhore. On his first date with Mom, he made her watch a bunch of filthy Betamax tapes with him. She let him. Dad was a banker from a good family. Mom’s dad set the date up. And on rolled the Betamax. Because this was the seventies, I like to picture this all...