Ceci n’est pas une pipe

poetry
  This is not a pipe, said surrealist painter Magritte about his painting. It looks like a pipe, convinces you, makes you believe that it is a pipe, but you…

Anabel

poetry
  Her name is Anabel. A Turkification of the foreign name “Annabel.” Not ten minutes ago, Anabel pulled me out of the way as the bumper of a bus grazed…

Summer’s End

poetry
  She came to me three times last night. Padded across the carpet +++and hardwood and in a voice so clear she sounded like fresh river water said, +++Mama, I’m…

The Storming of Forestswarm

Fiction
  He called it the new house, but it was very old. The landlord wouldn’t say exactly. He’d said it was built in 1920 or 1900 or, once, “the late…

Eulogy for Bao Bayun

Fiction
  Today we mourn our great leader. A loss of great consequence: how hungry our stomachs, how boring our stories, how cold our campfires will be. No one knows when…

One Fight after Another

Fiction
  Dolores, nearing the end of her second ambulance shift of the week, sits in a plastic lawn chair outside the back of the fire station. Between calls she often…

Powder

Fiction
  By the summer of 1993, my father had had enough of the war and decided it was time for a vacation. “We’ve been locked up for two years now,…