The witch lived in one of the houses facing the field where we played and every now and then, she would emerge in a faded kameez that reached her ankles, a book under her arm, puffing furiously at a cigarette. We were warned not to talk to the witch, who was, our parents…
When my father was in the late stages of terminal lung cancer—chemo and two operations had not slowed it down—a group of his friends came to our house to visit him. They had been drinking. Giacchino Palmieri, his godson, the loudest among them, slurred and slobbered greetings to my father, who was already in pajamas…
They told me that I died one autumn night. Lying in the empty bathtub, at that rented noisy apartment, while the water ran through my dressed up body. It was warm water, though. And my jeans, the shoes and shirt were all soaked. There were no signs of violence, there were no marks on the…
Fra Angelico Makes Two Cappuccinos for Mark Rothko The Great Artistic Studio in the Sky, where our story takes place, is a spacious area with all the clear northern light that any artist could want. It is conveniently located in an area that has all the amenities of midtown Manhattan such as delis and coffee…
Welcome to Saint Angel, William Luvaas’s third novel (Anaphora Literary Press, March 2018), chronicles a small enclave of California nation during a severe drought. I met with William Luvaas recently in Pasadena to discuss his new novel while the SoCal fires raged nearby. Welcome to Saint Angel is the story of a loose-knit…
When Leo gets in the car, the clock moves back an hour. “See?” Mom says. “I told you guys.” But we aren’t convinced. I’ve seen this happen this summer, sure. But I figure there has to be some sort of scientific explanation. I believe in science, and the internet, and evolution. I think if all…
My friend Katie is a psychic and cryptozoologist. As a cryptozoologist, she doesn’t stalk the typical variety of elusive, randomly sighted, unverified cryptids—your Sasquatch or Nellie or Jersey Devil. No, her quarry is far more ethereal, and apparently much tinier. They don’t inhabit deep woods or unfathomable lakes, but rather commonplace neighborhoods, typically…
Blue Blue pastel and Kodachrome clouds. Sunlight streams from the shoebox. Empty and cracked, Nikon and Kodak, plastic canisters rattle on the ground, bouncing off the hardwood. The photographs are neatly stacked. Dust fills the spaces in between. Martin looks at himself in dynamic Polaroid light. He wonders how many flashbulbs were wasted trying to…
Clive swept his hand through the dried delta bed, rubbing a few specks of rusting rock between his gloved fingers. He looked out at the Mighty Dust Mites—as he liked to call the solar-powered robots—which speckled the planet for miles. When, in an effort to save their dying program, NASA’s engineers discovered they could…
Rock and roll therapy crashes in waves against her eardrums. The sound changes color. Her mind is lacquered purple and the room is full of smoke. Listless clouds bounce from couch to couch and hot cirrus strands dance towards the ceiling. It’s been two years since college. Brian is sitting on the red loveseat. He’s…
