Your father is lying on the couch under a quilt with an Apsáalooke print on it. He tells you, I’m sorry I can’t go, this thing is killing me. And you nod your head that folds your high-necked sweater down because it is old and has been worn and washed time and again. You are hot, standing there in your sweater and your jacket and your bright vest with your wool hat and two layers of pants. He tells you, You’ll be fine but stay off the reservation. He tells you he’s expecting big things from you—that you will feed the family over the winter after today.
Warhol & Kafka
Usually I obey the barking & thank an invisible God for invisible fences.
A bad batch of Molly, out of context, sounds so innocent.
What I was going to say is code for before you interrupted.
Back and forth, the waves sloshed in a steady rhythm–a calming musical accompaniment to the day.
Dzanc Books. 263 pp. In the first chapters of her memoir, Origins of the Universe and What it all Means, Carole Firstman packs up her father’s old house. According to his specific instructions, she organizes boxes to send to him at his new home in Mexico, and...
She said she had seen a ghost, or a blurry vision, as she called it, behind our bedroom mirror.
I am cleaning out a woman’s underwear drawer,
a woman who burned herself to death in the woods last week,
The editors at Green Mountains Review are pleased to announce the winners of the first annual GMR Book Prize. Many congratulations to all the finalists! And congrats to the winners! The winning manuscripts will be published Fall 2016. PROSE Judged by Sarah...
Michel was an old and charming man as only an old and charming painter in a Parisian atelier can be. He was our neighbor. Whenever we ran into each other in the courtyard and spoke, I let him touch my hands and in the summer even my bare shoulders. This was a huge thing for me, although I didn’t know at the time whether it meant a compromise or a victory. Michel was also my second novel […]
I’m not sure what it is about this place that cinches my gut shut whenever I’m here. Maybe it’s the history. 1906, Loma Prieta, the Oakland Hills—even the whole dot-com business.