Fiction

It all began with a different conversation, in a different city. I came home from school to find that you had hidden your toy—a small woodland creature, a bushy-tailed squirrel—in the vase I’d made with mum.

I’m an intuitive person. I just know what I know, is how I explain it to poor Bonnie, who doesn’t have an intuitive bone in her body

Francine loved talking about Pacific Coast Highway, the road beside the cliffs, the ocean so blue besides

That the ear may be revered, Leeore says, is a lovely thing. He has been reading Neruda. 

In each room someone is doing something. Grandma declines the paper at the dining table.

In this, the City of Borges, Stephen took a one-bedroom apartment in Palermo and arranged his things neatly in the half-empty drawers

George jolted awake, hearing sounds at the side of the boat, not Clare this time, though the sound was the same, but the girl Jones.

George Parker was thinking about tortoises and their high value on the market when he ran into his first night wanderer. It was the solo girl, the only one in a group of thirty-one tourists on the Galapagos cruise he was on.

We stopped at Walmart.

With a case of beer in hand, I checked out at the register manned by Rose’s father.

A body loses over forty thousand skin cells per minute. This is something Ms. Lunsford taught me in ninth grade biology.