Fiction
Story of the Week
I think you might have turned into a novelist, if we’d been allowed to go on.
Classics
Kids interfere with perfection. Wives interfere. Marriage interferes.
Fiction
The letter both pleased and disturbed her. Why did he get in touch?
Story of the Week
The house of our relationship is a fort. Blanket fort. Tree fort.
Story of the Week
It was up airly and down late with him, and the loom never standin’ still.
Story of the Week
He cannot imagine the shape his life would take without her.
Fiction
There in front of the house was his son’s ratty old Thunderbird.
Fiction
The sense of power that flights of temper evoke will betray you.
Fiction
It was on a mid-June morning that the stranger first called.
Fiction
A coldness bumped a last kiss upon my cheek, a good-bye kiss sliding across.
Fiction
The stupider the president the more power you arrange for him.
Classics
The eyes looked into his own with a meaning, a malign significance.
Fiction
Five dark shapes loped after the car. Dogs—as far as the eye could see.
Story of the Week
They would find certain and awful death in Afghanistan.
Fiction
This is not deception. This is a subtle way of conditioning.
Fiction
I am eleven years old and too young to die, but I am dying nonetheless.
Story of the Week
How shocking it was to discover these real things were not real.
Classics
All these and security were within. Without was the “Red Death.”
iStories
If, on your deathbed, you want to watch a movie, don’t let me pick.
Story of the Week
Miss Moses smiled, I could take you, buster. Don’t try anything with me.
Story of the Week
Jane’s made it clear, this Renuka might not even become a doctor.
Story of the Week
Your mother still glows with a smoothness that you envy.
Classics
He always talked of making money with the air of a connoisseur.
Fiction
She was no man’s dark dream, only a girl forced to swim half-clothed.
Story of the Week
She accused her husband with great drama of having destroyed her life.
Story of the Week
“I mean it, Martín. I won’t marry a man with a bald lip, like a boy.”
Fiction
The child is too perfect to be human; too perfect, truthfully, to exist.
