Archives: September 2017

Pass Without Notice

The old man looked young, even when dying. Worked hard all his life and was never quick to tell anyone about his cancer, never quick to settle his affairs even after the coughing left him exhausted night after night, collapsed in his recliner with Pat Robertson on the TV. You might think he would never

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They Are Real

She sat cradling her mug of tea. From time to time she would lower her face to it, close her eyes and inhale the fragrant steam. This was the tenth night in a row she had awakened screaming at precisely 2:10 am, the tenth morning after she had lain awake with the visions she would

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Postwar

In January 1946, Corporal Stuart Dulley was discharged from the United States Marine Corps in which he had served since September 1940. His wounded arm had healed as much as it was going to, which wasn’t much. Other men at the hospital were aching to get back to something. Wives, jobs, hometowns. Stuart’s parents had

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My Dinner With Andrei

I know you cannot speak. Trust me. This is for the best. Perhaps you have heard the stories. That I cut their tongues out and ate them, slit them like grain sacks and swallowed their innards like borscht. Or that I was in KGB and went about on the Moscow trains with the organs of

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Is This Sunday?

“Where is my coffee?” “It’s right there in front of you, dear.” “Ah. Yes. So it is!” He lifted it to his lips and for a moment I could again see what he’d looked like as a little boy. “Oh, this is good. What is it again?” “It’s coffee, dear. Just as you like it.”

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Excerpt: Ulysses of Sorts

In honor of all those soldiers, Marines, airmen and sailors who are dying in the name of America,  I give you an excerpt from a story about Stuart Dulley,  a young man who joined the Marines in 1940 and got caught up in the hideous machine of war.  Stuart watched her and decided Navy nurses

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You Should Be Safe For Now

He flicked on the light. The room had a musty, disused air about it. Stale air and dust, dull and windowless. “What is this place?” she asked. “It used to be a barrel house. Bootleggers would store their whiskey here until they could ship it upriver.” He pointed to a trap door in the floor.

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El Murió En La Perla

Ramón held his glass aloft. “A toast,” he shouted over the din of the crowd. “To San Sebastián!” “And his perforated testicles!’ roared Philippe. They clicked glasses and drained the fiery rum in one swallow. “Another!” Ramón yelled to the barman. All around them the crowd surged shoulder to shoulder, filling the bar and spilling

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Waiting

In June of 1999 I was traveling back to Portland after visiting my father in Tucson with my three-year-old daughter in tow. We missed a connection and wound up in the Las Vegas Airport. It was my first time in that city, and in the late hour the airport was almost empty An island of garish casino machines

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Hanbleceya

The old man turned off the truck. The only sound was the Ford’s engine ticking as it cooled. “Well,” said Cole. “Guess I better get started.” “Guess you better,” said the old man. Cole opened the door and stepped onto the rocky ground. The old man got out and came around to stand next to

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