“No one ever tells the truth, son. If they did, no one would ever go to a war.”

My great great great great great grand children like to visit to look down on earth and imagine that confusing time between stone age and space age, when we licked rocket pops, drank hot tea, and used our throats to speak.

When LuAnn turned eleven, she hit the wall. “Eleven’s when it happens,” LuAnn says to the stylist teasing Amber’s hair into a high, shimmering web.

Finally he painted his own chair, maybe because no one would sit for him anymore (after he cut off a piece of his own ear.) The chair centered and framed so that one leg of it reached down to the bottom of the painting, seeming to be skewed a little, ou

Before the railroad tracks are blown off by the wind, the wall tiles morph to trace 34th Streetwhile a silver balloon emerges from the end of the tunnel. A child’s hand reaches out for the gleam and she, the woman in a black-dress with a mandarin collar,

Not since he was a young man had he knelt on the other side of the sliding window.

There’s no sky like that, with twisting clouds shot up into by cypress trees that are so like dark green flames, leaping out of the earth as if a dark green oily pool were on fire underground, and this was all that could escape, was its essence. And a

My father gave up fishing when I left home for good. He let his five-dollar rowboats, planted in a dozen lakes, fall prey to vandals, rot, or thieves.