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The legendary author Robert Stone, in the words of his friends.

If angels were made of music, surely they would vanish.

Fortyish, give or take, each of them correctly estimates the other to be.

I sobbed even through hymns sung too gently to lend me cover

Descent jumps and jostles, nausea drops me back to the floodplain.

Her previous existence seemed unreal, now, a faint rumor.

She looks in the mirror above the sink, and her image makes eye contact.

He didn’t fall in line with our well-established porn-shop hierarchy.

The rings of Saturn flash their nothing yellows, nothing blues beautiful.

Nothing was permanent, no friend I made, no math test I took.

When one of the Baxters yelled, “Hey, Turd,” we all turned our heads.

Let’s span a time with each other. The mutual will give us pleasure.

Annette. Such a little bit of a person. Emma couldn’t get over it.

I have wasted your childhood, photographed you too much.

Brassy bullets fell against the floral comforter like little candies.

My students are in rows, alive—day-picked apples cut by teeth.

I was always being left behind in the mud, a bandage around my eyes.

Maybe older Natives have more trauma than younger ones.

Tomorrow I’ll be ratted out about the hunting, but I knew it’d be worth it.

In Astoria, Leo and I find a small church on our way to the river.

A question will render in a throat before blowing out its socket.

Michelle dances on his forehead like an imp, like an illness in motion.

When we move together in the dark I can almost get to him but I turn back.

Like a bird with a broken wing I will smudge the line of the hopscotch.

Tobias Wolff

Outside the kids play stretcher. One of them was dying between my hands.

Had he been a man, we could’ve saved his life right then and there.

What would you say about the driver of the truck that killed you?

Six-word stories about the the perplexities of love and desire.