i'm obsessed with shorts. short. stories.
Stephen King says first lines are all about voice. i think a first line is knocking on the door. and i ask: who is there for me? will the door be thrown open with abandon? left ajar for me to enter at my own speed? or is there no one waiting? let me check the … Read more
i’m camped out, third floor of a condominium complex, two flights up from a parking lot overflowing with white diesel work trucks. a mattress set rests on the floor, my bed. the wheels of my suitcase are anointed with red dust. this is a sacred place. it’s hanging in the air like smoke; i feel … Read more
the airport has the weirdest carpets. i don’t know where you source a length of carpet with these big graphics. so abstract. the triangles, the edges and misshapen dots. the pattern is so big i cannot focus on it in it’s entirety. i fight the urge to lie down on the carpet of travelers, feel … Read more
rainbow cleaners is demolished and blue metal fences mark the perimeters of the construction site. soon the earthmoving machines will shove down the concrete foundations that remain, scrape away layers of contaiminated soil. and i wonder what fluids have leaked through the floorboards after 50 years of cleaning service? rainbow cleaners is demolished and there’s … Read more
12-years-old, long, clean brown hair, and pouting lips rouged scarlet. she’s pushing a baby carriage down the boulevard and the baby isn’t hers. a sister, by the looks of it. her dad is trailing in her pubescent wake, head swivelling as he checks out the action on the strip. there are people everywhere, on the … Read more
“where’re we going?” “south.” “we’re going south?” “In this wind, south by southwest.” “isn’t that a Hitchcock movie?” “naw. that’s North by Northwest.” “good to know. you like Hitchcock?” “love him.” “favourite movie?” “Vertigo.” “that one makes me dizzy.” “fear of heights?” “absolutely.” “don’t let go.”
by Jeet Thayil I am over you at last, in Mexico City, in a white space high above the street, my hands steady, the walls unmoving. It’s warm here, and safe, and even in winter the rain is benign. Some mornings I let the sounds of the plaza – a fruit seller, a boy acrobat, … Read more
writer Mavis Gallant rests in a marked grave in Montparnasse Cemetery in Paris. in 2015 it was difficult to locate without knowledge that she resides, temporarily, in her friend’s family crypt, because Mavis died almost penniless. when faced with fragile, failing health and dwindling finances, she stated, unequivocally, “i have chosen to be a writer, … Read more
when i was 13 and hated my self, my life, my social studies teacher, i chucked my textbook in the river. then i smoked 3 cigarettes and threw up. i don’t know why. it was June and the sudden heat was stifling. the river was high, swirling and full of dead wood. i thought i … Read more