All were part of the household of Court Astronomer Tycho Brahe (1546-1601) who lost his nose in a duel as a student and went through life thereafter wearing a gold prosthetic one instead and who met and fell in love with a commoner who bore him eigh

He remembered waking up on those lazy summer days hearing the sad song of mourning doves.

There's this sepia-toned photograph, which my mother gave me, of my brother and me when we were still both youngsters. In the picture my brother's dressed in a skimpy checked suit whose sleeves were already too short for him — on its way to becoming my

Writing as a form of imaginative hatred

Bert also said that somebody else at the meeting was complaining about his high blood pressure, and Bert repeated what Hank had said, that he was glad to have any blood pressure at all.

I / go my / way alone

Twice burned, it buries its graves.

And you lean forward and all of that caffeine anxiety rises up in your throat, the pressure in your jaw, a series of weights and pulleys on your teeth and at the back of your mouth. So when you open your mouth to talk, no sound is made, only the sound of

When the malady struck and the world fell dark at noon, she and I groped the walls and found our front door. Outside, bewildered, we heard the whine of jets in free-fall, explosions in the imagined distance. And we heard a car — or was it a truck that veered…

Coward, cuckold, she taunts: So be it. He's not a young man anymore, nor as clever as he once was, or thought.

The border crossing at El Paso will soon be arriving. I'm apprehensive about Mexico, all the violence.

The serious writer looks back on a long and distinguished career as an herbologist.

“He's the one who took five tries to find your vein during your last blood draw, right?” This question spilled from the row of twenty EKG machines that now made up the hospital building's larynx

If you were the ozone, I’d want to leave you gaping.

She served him pie she knew was ruined.