At thirty-six she has never had a man fall asleep with his head on her shoulder. She has never been touched before. Not like that. Not by a man. Or a woman.
A curly-haired man in a black suit stood on a hilltop, holding hands with a woman who floated above him wearing a dress the color of grape juice.
“That’s Marc Chagall and me.”
In writing the piece, I wanted to show variable manifestations of manic rage, and to blur the lines between the I, we, and she, so that landing on the mother-daughter relationship would be amplified.
Dad, he truly was a bum, a defenses’ dream, a knock-kneed,
cockeyed excuse for a quarterback. Just as you said,
if there is one thing I know
it’s this storm how rain sloshed over
How long he kept your name for himself-
Let’s acknowledge that wrapping up a short story is difficult.
Shuster is one of those unique novelists who has not only mastered the art of
telling a tight story in the Aristotelian model of plot, character, and
If you can imagine heaven as a room full
Of family and friends, of heroes and lovers gathering
All around you, throwing all of their arms around you,