I was sixteen and mesmerized by the graffiti – framed by tunnels, bridges, and walls of industrial buildings. It seemed the only view on an Amtrak train from Springfield, Mass ...
A man dreams he is about to die then becomes convinced he will die soon
A moving portrait of rough-and-tumble Stephen Andrews
An English teacher’s students keep dying
On the lengthy strands of our person tangling into the great city
I thought the man was sleeping until I saw his dead stare. The top of his head was gone, leaving a hole ringed by wisps of black hair.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. He should be checking on steam cleaners and bottles of solvents, cleaning the debris, clearing the bodies. Bodies… They had always been bodies. Silent ...
These still early years of the twenty-first century have seen a rising fascination for the mourning practices of the nineteenth century. At a time when loved ones are memorialized via ...
He came out of the cell calmly at eight in the morning with nothing to say. The captain had never seen anyone come out of a cell so calmly.
The other ...
One of the most resonating questions I was left pondering over was of representation. In many respects the contemplations of death, the associated images, the rituals and ceremonies built around ...
Pete leant on the washing machine, catching his breath, looking around. It was a big kitchen. Big and empty and incomplete, caught between one age and another, one owner and ...
Nan may as well have been dead. She was on the sofabed in the front room. Sprawled, but rigid. Her hands were claw-like, yellowed and scaly. The room was cloudy ...
