Fiction

We traded memories through the night, starting with branches of personal history and working backward until we reached the primeval muck that fuels a life.

Tinnitus occurs for many reasons, most of them vague.

They say evolution occurs most rapidly in body parts that attract lovers and frighten rivals.

Maps of the Arctic give me vertigo. All that blank bright land feels like leaping off a rooftop.

Cut to commercial, and I hum along with a jingle for a machine that controls your brainwaves while you sleep.

It was a run-down joint where time stood still and probably slid backward.

Most people walk away from their dreams sooner or later, usually in tiny steps that are hardly noticeable, the course altered by fractional degrees until it leads to a reversal of the poles. The childhood fantasy of becoming an astronaut or paleontologist fades into paying down a credit card or

Some Americans like to tie a pair of shoes together and toss them at a power line.

“Science shouldn’t explain everything,” she told me.

Maybe you’ve heard the stories, the baroque theories on late-night radio or the soliloquies of sunburnt men who mutter at the traffic.

One of my short stories has been published in Vol. 1 Brooklyn. It’s about an elderly couple in a Walgreen’s parking lot, and they’ve been haunting my dreams for years. It’s called “The Greatest Show on Earth,” and here’s how it begins: There’s this

My mother believed life should be graceful and clean, much like the way she entered the water when she was young. She had been a diver and, for a time, the most famous woman in town. Especially once she began killing people. She was an all-city legend, a state champion