The neighborhood kids get a kick out of it. They’re always trying to stump me, you know, name something I won’t mow over. But I’ll mow over just about anything. Nothing living, of course. Should go without saying. Tyrell Sleeveland — you know him, always with the runny nose, lives off Madison and Twinkle with…

Zeus was three years younger than Mother. Zeus could touch the basketball net without jumping.

For weeks, you’d been slipping. Collecting speeding tickets, lottery tickets, yelling at the neighbor’s boy, overfeeding the fish.

Chen Shu Ang often said that in her next life she wanted three things—to be reborn tall, to be a man (so no one could tell her what to do!) and to never leave her homeland. It went unsaid that she would once again be born in her beloved Taiwan.

Only this writer sees what’s happening in Ginny and David’s backyard. They are back there burying Tim’s dog. They’re sliding its tiny carcass into an almost equally tiny hole without any difficulty. Tim doesn’t even know his dog’s dead.

A smooth harmony floated throughout the living room. The woman’s soft tune was periodically accompanied by the lilt of her daughter’s voice and the hum of the music as they took their respective places on the couch and the clean hardwood floor. Surrounded by the comfort of their living room, the pair continued their duet…

It offers the sky smoke, dark and thick and ruthless. All Camelia Byrd can think about as the sound of the sirens roll past — shrill, strange, sharp choirs-voice fading away — is how beautiful it is. Not that she and her daughter almost died. Not that she can still see the collision every time…

Penises grew in our garden. At first we weren’t sure that’s what they were. When they were small, they could have been little developing cucumbers or zucchini or beans or (of course) eggplants. But as they grew larger it became unquestionable: these were sure-as-shit penises. And human ones, at that.

I was scrubbing dinner plates in a soapy sink bath while Juniper drowned cookies in a mug of milk at the table — both of us admiring our new and dreamy backyard garden at sunset — when the old man traipsed into view. I thought maybe he was drunk. He looked harmless and ancient —…

The world goes watercolor when you fall. Aquamarine shimmer, it’s like looking through the liquor bottles lining your mother’s counters when she gets sloppy drunk with her boyfriends, crying before she laughs, or the giant bubbles you make around your body with your old kiddie pool, a bottle of Dawn, and a hula-hoop. Inside the…

It was a Monday, a Monday like any other in early spring. Longer days and the air slowly loosening its frosty bite of the city. Optimistic buds dotted tree branches along Park Avenue. Here and there, the dark uniforms of winter were sprinkled with bursts of bright blue scarves and magenta light wool coats. Even…

A camel followed me home from your wake. Dad offered me a ride, but Mom didn’t want me in the car, so I walked instead. As I reached High Park, cherry blossoms fell on my hair that was still wet from my morning shower, cascaded down my one good black blazer. There was a roar…