You held my hand when I hit the ground and told me the shakes would start soon.

It is not unusual to see Göttwigg with his shirt on inside out.

My uncle lived part-time in prison, in a cell with a blanket, pillow, and towel. The remainder of his days he lived in a small house on Prospect Street.

It was bound to happen. Even celebrities can only take so much. The constant comparisons to Christ (people still think He was born in December), assumptions that he was anti-Semite or anti-Islam, and accusations from PETA, now ad litem for…

There were guitar players, and as happens with talent sometimes, the guitar players were too talented. There could not be places for all of them in a single rock band.

Mr. Wazzeldot has seven legs. He lives very comfortably. He likes to sit by the fire. There's a large cushion for a chair, and in the evenings, he sips his Bloody Marys. I know because I visit him…

Then I am wearing a brightly colored raincoat while sitting on a deck among hundreds of tiny glowing spores

I rifled through the bedside table until I found dirty magazines

Nothing changes; the moon arcs its mindful lemon eye. . .

Captain Zeep came to Earth at last century's end to help pave the way for a Zorkian takeover by 2012 at the latest. Key to the game plan: Earthlings had to get dumber than eggplants. When George Bush stole the White House, Zeep figured, Bingo, dumb…

She remembered how cold it was in the factory that day. A few of the high windows stood open as usual, necessary for ventilation when the machines were all running, when the concrete floors were packed with the sweating bodies of warm human workers. The

My father bouncing his leg to slow rock music with me on one knee, telling me I should keep a special place in my heart for my teeth, to remember where I lose them, on the playground like he did when he was my age, fighting a friend named Bobby-Joe. Or else I could lose…

The sugar cookie sits on the cold counter. Alone. He is cut in the shape of an angel, a fact which often causes him to contemplate the possibility that he may not be a cookie at all, but an angel. Who says he couldn’t be?

We sat quietly in my truck. My lit cigarette twitched between my lips. Samantha and I stared at the front door of Planned Parenthood in Worcester.

I wonder if she is my real mother, if I could get one of those paternity tests and find out if she’s my real mother and if the guy she told me was my father was really my father. I can’t remember him very well, just a lot of him screaming and hollering an