Who among us has not dreamt, in moments of ambition, of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and rhyme, supple and staccato..

I haven’t really done much. The least I can do is write this down while I can. I was a lazy redhead – the sloth..

When I was a child, I saw my father as the Indian Jimmy Dean. He was a young god.  That’s why my mother married him.  ..

In an armchair at the center of a Starbucks, nearly hidden by its arms, a young boy reads, perplexed but concentrating hard: Once upon a..

My destination was about 30 miles from Reno-Tahoe International Airport. I drove along I-580, to US-395 S., to US-50 and took exit 39 and as GPS..

Things were moving too slowly.  By September, there ought at least to have been a back and a front.  Sprouts of sleeves.  But her mother..

I never chose to be a writer: it chose me.  I’ve even tried to rid myself of it for good reasons, financial and protectively egoistic,..

Haunting eyes on the front page of the Sunday Chronicle stared back at Angelo so darkly that he held his breath. He removed his glasses,..

On Thursdays, because he got home past midnight, Yadav wouldn’t sound the car horn. He’d wait outside and flick the headlights on and off. If..