Fiction

Here was Cyrus at the door on a Saturday, unannounced and with a leather duffel hanging from each arm, asking to crash for a night or two—three at absolute most.

In 1906 Horatio Applewood watched a white man slip a Belgian Browning, a five-shot rifle, into his father’s hand as barter for a rowboat he had built from scratch.

They were gathered in a field, six boys, playing a game he didn’t know.

Pes mou, the driver said to us at the taxi stand, leaning against his car, all bored and beautiful.

Light cut through the darkness that filled the nave, rousing Pastor Kane from sleep.

An itinerant photographer has set up his camera, lights, and chair in a local grocery store. This was many years ago. I was there, I saw it myself.

The day she decided to leave her lover, Romina was sitting in a plastic folding chair brought from home and waiting for her mother to be released from emergency services.

Oksana and Ruslana, Ukrainian girls playing in the streets of Lwów: dolls and sticks and rope. Sunup-sunset, never a cloud in the sky, even when it rains. Always tying and buckling one another’s shoes. When they fall or get scraped, they...

As Álvaro wandered the sweeping courtyard of his hotel, a colonial relic that had been renovated with a pool in preparation for the imminent wave of tourists, he had no choice but to accept the matter for what it was. The situation was...

Sometime before I turned twenty, I was saved twice from dying. Neither time was by my design or choice.