Years ago, as a graduate student in writing at DePaul University, I took two fiction classes from Phyllis Moore.
You smell the scent.
It’s happened before. The first time, when you and your wife Claire cut through the cosmetics department at the mall, your heartbeat soared with such trepidation that you clutched at your chest, startling her
What do you get when you take a story of ancient satanic text and mix corporate corruption, an ailing child, and an elderly church caretaker who has lost his faith? You get C.G.
As I turn 38 and keep stocking drawers full of dreams and half-completed projects, I’m pushing forward with one big initiative: I’m having an imaginary baby. Why not?
My grandfather’s name was Efthimios Vasilios Patouhas, but I called him Papa. As a toddler I could only manage to spurt out the first syllable of the Greek word for grandfather, pappou. The repeated pa, pa, pa eventually became Papa.
This red cliff above
Neshaminy, and a wind
left here by the fat
Sometimes as he cuts back the spent blossoms
or lessens the height and girth of some shrub,
he sees himself cutting hair
I saw my old psychiatrist at Trader Joe’s,
sampling organic hand lotion.
So she could cope with the guilt
she renamed the dog before taking it
to the pound
With a lowball of Jack and fading ice
In one hand, he took me my by the other,
And without shoes on our feet,