Fiction
The Door Behind the Sun
The stark white envelope that arrived one week ago sits, unopened, in the middle of the stack of plywood that serves as my kitchen table. The envelope is surrounded by unwashed plasticware, bits of food, empty beer cans, cigarette butts, spilt coffee, beer, wine, and scattered ash—a battalion of filth against a lone, clean invader…
Open Twenty-Four Hours
He had been living in the Rite-Aid since he was, presumably, nine years old. Nobody actually knew quite how old he was, but nine was a good enough guess…
