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Birds of the Black Canyon Published in Bryant Literary Review “As they crossed the big mountains only she talked, hands off the wheel to gesture vivaciously. He squeezed her knee, wide blue stare fixed on the highway. Since the last time she'd seen him, Valentine's Day, he'd gotten himself a Navajo ring with a turquoise set in a moon of brushed silver. Surprising: despite his pretensions (Banderas cologne), he'd never been into jewelry.…” Birds of the Black Canyon |
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Barefoot to the Bridge in Winter
Published in fiction premiere, New York Woman “Sensei was a man from another age and place, maybe from a different species, a stronger Homo-sapiens strain, not usually encountered in New York City. And even if you were not a man, he made you want to be more manly-resolved to vanquish fear and dump your cumbersome load of frailty. With the compelling power of his strength, he taught you what you had already learned –that weakness would never save you. As you watched his tensile lion’s feet subdue the floorboards of the dojo and his callused hands, perched on his wrists like a Roman’s falcons, deftly knotting his frayed black belt, you forgot your disdain for groups and leaders,your reservations about acquiring fierceness. And then, whatever Sensei asked,you heard your voice, amazingly deep, crying “Osu!” which means many things in Japanese, but mostly “yes.…” Barefoot to the Bridge in Winter |
Mother is Dying
Published in Chicklit: Postfeminist Fiction “The night Mother died I dreamed I was a man. Mother didn’t actually die that night—she cried out in her sleep and fell into a coma. And what I dreamed was that I was sexually molested on a desiccated flood plain by a slim red-haired woman. When she unzipped her black jeans, pendulous hairy balls spilled out of the placket. Later, as the plane leaving Cheyenne bucked into cold gusts, I realized that the andogyne looked just like me, the same hennaed curls and stained cashmere sweater.…” Mother is Dying |
The Isle of Love
Published in Ploughshares: Confronting Racial Difference “Dolores meets the African boy in a tourist restaurant called The Yogurt Inn. She is sipping a cold lemon juice, despite her vow to avoid drinks with unboiled water, and trying to read The Man who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. It is extremely hot and humid. Before she collapsed in the bamboo-filtered shade of the flowery patio, she walked a bit beyond it, looking for a less touristy place, one without a quaint wooden sign inviting her to “Pop in for a Cold Drink and Some Yoghurt.” But she found no more restaurants on the town’s main street. Farther on, the low houses were made of stone instead of the heavily textured coral rag that composed the Swahili island’s historic buildings. These ordinary houses shrunk down convoluted passageways, where pigs ran loose and chickens scratched and the local people stared, but did not see her.…” |
