Stories tagged fiction

Sitting Shiva

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Mornings, cod liver oil on a spoon. The St. Brigid’s cross beside the front door, tacked to the Holy Water font. The bit of sponge in the well of the font yellowed and crusted, never changed in the years we've lived in the house.

Animals in the Crescent City

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I’m not a religious man by definition, but I said two Our Fathers while I was pissing.

A Bum-note Baritone

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Quite a figure he cut in his Jockey y-fronts, the Johnson’s Baby talcum powder billowing everywhere, the old-fashioned bottle of Old Spice shaken and slapped on both palms and then both cheeks.

The Future Unmapped

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Your headache is gone now, the pain peeled back by a barrage of alcohol and pills, the pine-scented perfume of yours wrapping me in love as I push aside branches and make my dogged way ahead of you.

Holdfast

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Back in the day she’d have been done for fraud by the church, but now it seems they’re so starved for new congregants they’ll overlook most sins on the spectrum.

Incident at Union Plaza

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A chicken vendor twisted the neck of the bird and held the spasming body tightly, while he threw away the head into a basket underneath the counter.

What You Choose to Take

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You first hear about the wildfire on the old kitchen radio.

Fatherhood 101

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The instructor moved over to the whiteboard and wrote in big block letters “FOOTBALL” and then crossed it out. “You should just never treat your newborn like a football. That means no passing it or punting it.

The Game

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"We're practicing," she signs, "for an earthquake."

Good Old Days

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That night, when Nostalgia knocked on my door just before dawn, I had just enough time to catch her coat as she slipped it off and staggered into my apartment.

my ac

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i hated the machine

Down-n-Out in Beverly Hills

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Wicked are the men who dispense enlightenment from the side of the pool, clad only in aquamarine skivvies.

Clean Out Your Desk, Naps. You're Being Replaced.

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Sunday mornings my mother got up early—and dragged me kicking and screaming out of bed and into my nicest jeans and sweater. I have still never thanked her. (I’m borrowing, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less true.)

Rags To Riches To Rags: 1

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I went to Prague recently to visit my family’s castle, which is called Krivoklat. I’m not even going to attempt to explain to you how to pronounce that. It’s outside Prague, about an hour to the west. They say that inside the veins of every

You Are Now Leaving Czech Soil

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He leans forward across the cafe table, holding both of her hands, and tries to kiss her on the lips, but she pulls back, making him beg for it. Then she kisses the top of his downturned head. Beg for it he will, and she knows it. Now he