They throw rocks at me and I run. I am a “Dirty Jew” on the playground. My smooth bobbed hair cut razor sharp at the chin, lips chapped, eyes foggy and moist, I run. After I hit the asphalt, mother holds a rag to my head as the blood trickles down the outside of her … More I Run
My mother spent summers peeling peaches from our orchard and boiling them in sugar syrup. The jars of kompot were for rare guests, Ramadan dawns, birthdays. She would hide one jar for December and let me eat with my fingers. Peaches slipped down my throat in frozen honey, sour flesh shocking my baby teeth as … More Why I Don’t Eat Birthday Cake
Drizzle fell; Keith’s feet were damp – “Damn shoes”. He wandered down Marylebone Lane feeling coins in his pocket; two shillings, two pennies, and a joey. Enough for a cup of tea, a bus fare, and a chip supper. He enjoyed the warm café, the sweet tea, the still moments. Back outside, his collar turned … More Quando me’n vo’
The group was atop the fort overlooking the Arabian sea dappled in gold by the setting sun. Cameras poised, they waited. Squeezing himself in, the boy stood on his toes with his head barely above the wall. He looked right, left, and ahead, and asked “What are we looking at?” He looked dutifully at the … More No Boundaries
The epithets followed him all his life. “Don’t be a sissy” in school, and “Act like a man” all through thereafter. “Mama’s boy” to the girlfriend who left him, and also to the wife who stayed on. Nurtured by a strong-willed mother, he resonated with women. But alas, he was a misfit in this macho … More Mollycoddled
The year had been difficult. Looking back, it was hard to find anything good. He’d lost his job, and now they could lose the house. His father’s face haunted him. That gravelly voice. “What a joke.” “You’re a failure.” “The dog could do better than you.” Usually he’d been drunk, his eyes bloodshot, face red. … More Generations
On belay? Belay’s on. She finds comfort in these words, a promise of protection before leaving ground. She doesn’t know why she climbs. Something about how her muscles move, the feeling of fluidity. Climbing is a partner sport one does alone. So something about contradictions, too. She thinks in hypotheticals. Could it work? Climbing is … More The Last Jew in the Climbing Gym
She had come for a kind of closure, but now she wasn’t sure if such a thing was even possible. This was the place where those who came before her had suffered. She could hear their cries and see the fear in their eyes. The wind whistled through the trees and touched her hair. For … More The Place
The clientele of Café Mozart, once young and fashionable, now in 1950 were worn; a retired couple, a student, and two old men making their coffees last. As Fleur wiped the countertop halfheartedly, a tired woman wearing dark, ragged clothing entered. Fleur served her coffee and a pastry, then stood watching the dark clouds move … More The Gift
“Warum?” This desperate lament, a word foreign to her tongue, was cast from the gaping mouth of the woman with the hollow eyes and withering breath, to meet its fate under the officer’s boot. Still, he had heard it, seen it billow into the mid-winter air, hitched his shoulder as it met his skin with … More The Infection
The Centifictionist 