…I drifted and that’s the shore I found. I had to sneak in the booze. I’d buy sixty-four ounce water bottles at the CVS and dump them in the gutter before pouring in a handle of Stoli. Late at night I’d drink alone in my little dormitory, reading a comic book instead of the Bible. I’d sit there thinking “God… [Read More]

…in the most comforting voice you can imagine, “Hello there! Hello!” When Carrie emerged from the basement, Shelly from the kitchen, and me from our mother’s bedroom—I was sitting in a chair in her bedroom, reading, watching her sleep—Mrs. Derrick hugged us one by one, as if she knew us well, though she did not. She told us she hoped… [Read More]

…palm. Isako Isako have you run to your end. Isako Isako I turn the pages of your life and find you on every spread. Eyes solemn beneath a thick cut of bangs. Elbow deep in rose clippings. Left foot slightly extended to accentuate the line of your body. An Isako for every age. Isako Isako I hand you your reading… [Read More]

…In some ways, they still are. But Hitler, of course, went further. To see real death and real killing in, at once, utterly mechanical and mythical terms. Devoid of human pity. Filled to the brim with a dream of conquest and superiority. * * * My father’s uncle was a critic of German philosophy and literature. Reading his essays is still exhilarating…. [Read More]

…let you in mine, but we already have one too many.” The bus pulled onto the freeway. The air was stuffy, but she didn’t want to ask Tiff to open the window, much less reach over Tiff and open it herself. Tiff pulled a stack of fashion magazines from her backpack and offered one to Josie. Reading on buses made… [Read More]

…He studied so hard that he had to start wearing prescription eyeglasses. He must be working the night shift now. Ghassemi has a boutique and travels to Turkey two or three times a year to buy merchandise. All he does is fool around with women. Mahmoud committed suicide. He was a poet. Once when he was reading one of his… [Read More]

…ass, Seeing as how she never wore panties; Beaten at last, bloodied tooth and nail, he crawled Back to his room with her smells all over him. He dreaded the pale Sundays of December, Perched on a stool, hair plastered to his head with oil, Reading the cabbage leaves of the family Bible; Every night in bed his dreams oppressed… [Read More]

…we’re reading braille or something. It’s weird, Steph. It’s something. And I say, ‘Mom, what’s that old black guy doing in there?’” “He got a name?” “Who?” “I’m just tired of hearing you call him ‘this old black guy’ or ‘that old black guy.’” “What is it anyhow about that fella you were watching? He got you all worked up?”… [Read More]

…of Milton Hershey. I imagine a Cuban orphan getting trained for the job that killed his father. I imagine Kitty getting so fed up with the water spray she demands her fountain run on chocolate instead. I imagine millions of candy bars shipped across the nation, rattling in their wrappers, each one packaged with a paper slip reading: Pleas Hellp…. [Read More]

…but she didn’t turn for home. In a bit, she told the baby, we’ll go home in a bit. An old woman was sitting on the park bench throwing bits of bread to a few pigeons. Willa had seen her there before, sometimes asleep, sometimes reading a dime store paperback, but mostly, she sat and fed whatever birds happened to… [Read More]