Fiction

Her name was Casey Krupke and she was a 24-year-old waitress at Roy’s. The air conditioning at her house in Canoga Park had gone out . . .

She forgets how to swallow . . .

Andy had the top bunk, and I was below, liquor-dazed, letting her sister teach me how to touch . . .

Radish was born of the earth, plucked from the soil by the tufts of her leafy hair . . .

In the typical way we search for lost persons these days, via Google, I try to find Robert Hashima. There seems to be. . .

Karl finally arrives home. With him in the car is his mother, she sits in the passenger seat as he rolls down the driveway . . .

An inverted, roughly triangular reflection projected into the darkness a few feet outside the bus window . . .

I cannot pick up a child, grate a hunk of hard cheese, fold towels, play volleyball, be on the beach, in the sun, in the rain, in the snow . . .

I was in bed reading Leopardi on vastness, a subject that since a little after one a.m. had overwhelmed me, like a cascade overwhelms a leaf . . .

Manny was bleeding and would probably be dead in an hour or two. Still, I couldn’t get Ana off me . . .