Here’s where memory, where waves of light washed over him.
I knew it was Bible hell she had in mind, hell that went on and on.
He ended every year in this manner, writing and dreaming.
Narrative offers any reader a modern pocket library.
Chess was a humiliation that hung over him like a leper’s bell.
Our house sits alone out in the country, seven miles north of town.
I can see on him how things are changing for and against us.
Lorenzo and me, we’d squat our own building. It was the new frontier.
My daughter’s favorite game is Holocaust. She’s quite inventive.
Streetlights throw the blinds against the ceiling. It’s 7:00 p.m.
Royal baby George is tucked in the crook of his mother’s elbow.
Advance planning was never Hank’s strong suit, he had to leave her.
Paul King was shiftless and drunken; ugly tales were told of him.
For all the stories they’d concocted, the real one electrified them.
She did not leave him for the sailor. So why should he be angry?
Is she dreaming of the rivers soft with codling in her hometown?
All over the planet people try to end pain: striptease, bee stings.
Fiction, no matter how short or long, is the art form of human yearning.
The allure of Mardi Gras is to feel this way: unseen and unseeable.
Some inner voice told her that now or never her fate would be decided.
A boy watching another boy lucky gets an ache. That is a small motor.
She favoured me with an even more viciously scornful “Don’t care!”
We never really had what might be considered a normal conversation.
When he had passed from view, I stumbled back from the window.
She is complaisant with all her clothes off. She moves to his touch.
Americans have always a kind of tenderness for cheat.
In a way she enjoyed the slow, sad feeling of letting it go.
She is very rich. She will leave me everything when she dies, he says.