From my collection, here is the third set of showcased linked stories: The Charlie Stories. I hope you enjoy.
I like to think of my fiction collection as both—the stories themselves stand alone (I hope), and when read as a whole, the collection has a very novelistic feel. I aimed for both over the years of writing these stories, and whether I was successful or not, I suppose, is in the hands of the…
“Standing in the stairwell, Hannah gripped her daughter’s book and wondered why she did this, why she bothered with the long lunches and extra vacation days. None of it seemed to matter anymore. She was jealous of Ethan, of the time he spent at home with Alicia. But that wasn’t it. No, it was Ethan. Their marriage. The silences that now supplanted their conversations. He leaned over every night before falling asleep and kissed her shoulder and said, Don’t forget you love me. The words meant something once, long ago she thought, when they were young and naive and perfect. When she couldn’t imagine, even for a moment, forgetting how much she loved him. Now, she could barely look at him. He knew, she thought, but he didn’t care. Perhaps he had forgotten. She had tried, for some time, to remind him, but everything seemed to end in futility. Something new interrupted them, something unfamiliar and broken. She was at a loss as to what to do next. Leaning against the wall of the stairwell, she watched her daughter. Hannah took quick, unsatisfying breaths. Her marriage was worn, stuck between gears. It seemed the final miles had already come.”
Don’t Forget You Love Me, published in Used Furniture Review
“When Elizabeth entered the bookstore, she could still hear the conversations and see the commotion pouring in from Union Square.”
from “Union Square,” forthcoming in Gris-Gris
What About Sushi?, published in Wufniks
“He took up a spot on the last court, farthest from the lights. In the darkness, though, he could make out the white lines, the taut net, the side-by-side benches. Mary always insisted on her own bench. We smell too bad to share, she’d said with a laugh. Hank slipped off his shoes and moved to the service line. The manicured grass comforted his tired feet. Like a cloud, he thought. In his right hand, Hank gripped his racquet, and with his left, he bounced a ball. He could almost touch the smooth, felt nap. His toss was high, a motion that hadn’t changed since his teenage years, and he swung hard. Imagining Mary’s return, he shuffled to his right, hitting a forehand up the line. Mary would track the shot for sure, though, and return a backhand crosscourt. Hank hit a short ball back, hoping to draw Mary to the net. She rushed forward, slicing a drop shot just over the net. Raising his racquet, Hank clapped. Mary bowed and smiled, enjoying the attention. In the empty night, he could hear her critique his serve, that it was too windy for such a high toss, that he knew she would come to the net eventually, her voice as real as it had been all those years ago. She had always been there to return his shots, to keep the rally going. As he left the court, he imagined their back-and-forth, their epic battles, continued on without them, emerging like dew every morning and evaporating, at night, into the lights of Center Court.”
‘It was a match, not a game. Tennis is a match.’
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