Stories tagged short-story

The Names of Things

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She's having trouble remembering the names of things.

Cubicle Genie*

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At the TV station across the street two sports team mascots are dancing and miming for the cameras. There are some young men wearing baseball caps at the viewing window simulating sex acts for the cameras.

No One Thought

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. . . more a soothing balm of rhythms and harmony; when we left our stomachs were huckleberried and our souls were chrysalized


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Picking up a perfect stranger—perfect meaning dead, in this case—and shaping him into the man you’d want him to be is not so easy.

His Ears, His Belly-Button, My Shoes

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Hulk opens his book of architectural draftsman paper and holds a two foot tall crayon. He smells like a barn and I remind myself on a post-it to bring in two canisters of air freshener next time.

The Appointment

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She could see clearly to the end of a long road as if it were brightly lit before her, to medications and stupors and pain, the way both frightening and familiar.

En Pointe

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Her gaunt arms softly rose, sweeping in front of her with movements that were hesitant at first but, as the music that only she could hear took her in its grip, became graceful and assured.

The Last Man to Ever Let You Down

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Jefferson pulled the lever and the back-hoe dug deep into the earth; the machine creaked and bucked, fighting soil hard-baked by two months of record heat. They liked the holes six feet deep by ten feet wide, just like in Georgia, but this…

Fifth of July

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On the day my grandmother was buried, my grandfather shucked corn.


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“This smells like your poop,” he said. It will make you stronger, Beep said. You will be able to play soccer. Marky tasted one. He spat it out. “It tastes horrible!” he cried.

Whites in Hot Water

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To his astonishment, he discovered Maggie curled up inside the Maytag dryer, head down, shoulders hunched over.

The End of Février

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She got the day wrong. It was one of her usual mistakes, getting the day wrong. A Wednes for a Tues. Or a 5th for a 6th. Sometimes it took her until afternoon to realize it. Which probably meant that it didn’t make much of a difference anyway.

My First Serial Killer

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My serial killer can't commit. His knife blade is dull and raises red marks across my skin the way a pencil eraser might--long, pink, but hardly fatal. "That the best you can do," I taunt despite myself. "Not that great a serial killer, huh? Too little practice?" I had…

Men on Mars

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My love was photovoltaic, not Elizabethan.

Man Down

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Ceramic. Reflective aluminum. Plastic in varying shades of pastel. A cluster of twenty bowls lined in a tidy row against the far wall of the kitchen. Leo fills each one; he has a system, food (two cups, no more, no less) then water (to the brim), food the