Amid the Raindrops After weeks of running, I found myself in Laos. Laos is not a path to anywhere, so I stopped. My phone was off. No more dodging investigators, regulators, creditors. I could live here, learn Lao, show tourists around, maybe. Exploring my new country, I entered a temple. It was deserted and inside,…
Category: Realistic
Circling Back
Circling Back The project was simple: a group picture where each artist painted one square of a picture. I gave John the middle since he was our virtuoso. The outside came together quickly. I started emailing. Tactfully. Hi John, just wanted follow up about the bridge picture . . . John, just circling back about…
The Path of the Mail Carrier
The Path of the Mail Carrier Let’s watch the mail carrier from high above. His path is like the stitching from a sewing machine: a straight line punctuated by frequent dips to the right as he delivers his letters and bills and junk mail to each mailbox. From above, he is light blue oblong with…
I Should Have Bought the Radio
I Should Have Bought the Radio I woke up in the hospital, which is never a great day to start your day, or evening for me since it turned out to be 8pm. I was just wondering how I got there when my sister leaned into my sightline. “Hey, you’re awake,” she said. “Mom and…
Dangerous Texts
Dangerous Texts I’m on the roof. I’m going to jump. Some days I wish I didn’t have a brother. No, I don’t mean that. Truly. Stop joking around, I text back. Get back in the apartment. I can’t deal with this right now. The bakery is quiet, but I’m at work. I don’t have time…
Beyond Macaroni Art
Beyond Macaroni Art My ten-year-old 3D-printed me a car for my birthday. He downloaded the plans from the Internet, he said. I was still making macaroni art at that age. “You like it?” “Yeah. It’s . . . something.” His eyes are shining and I’m wondering if this green monstrosity actually runs, what kind of…
Insert Story Here
Insert Story Here My first job was at a secondhand shop where nothing ever sold. “Where’s this from?” I asked my boss, pointing at a brass flowerpot. “No idea.” I had some ideas, even if they were all lies. That night, I wrote a history of that flowerpot. It started with murder and became more…
Like a Boat Town Commute
Like a Boat Town Commute I strained at the oars of my dinghy. 7:55am. The school had drifted during the night, and I could just see its flag out beyond the diner. I passed merchants paddling out to create the day’s floating market. A few shouted encouragement. I rounded the church and spotted the school…
The Incognito Me
The Incognito Me I am beginning to like the smell of chlorine. Before this trip, the only picture it brought to mind was scrubbing floors or the stinging smell of hospital corridors. But now it smells like leisure: of early morning swims in the pool before practice or warm afternoons sitting by the water before…
Reading to Mrs. Smith
Reading to Mrs. Smith It was my first day and I didn’t want to be late. I was seventeen and volunteering to read to shut-ins in their homes. I felt every bump of the rough pavement up into my nerve-jangled stomach as I drove my mom’s car along Cedar Road, looking for number 460. The…
The Green-Walled Treehouse 