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When I was a boy, I always wondered if Dad were black. No one in our small town looked like Dad. He had the thick features of an Arab. If he let his hair grow, it piled up in messy loafs on his head. Of course, I never asked Dad about any of this. I wasn'
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He may be caught between bell boys shifting on their legs, business men loosening their ties; if he’s not there, I will find him, sliced in many skinny little fragments of sashimi. I can wait all night long in a red lobby full of geeks, listening to ele
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At least with one-sentence stories writers were not so much bound by mandated word limits. There was a certain flexibility granted to this form.
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