Published in The Massachusetts Review.

He sat at the table, which was covered with a plastic-coated red and white checked tablecloth, and looked out the window. In his hand he held a lukewarm beer. Five empty bottles were lined up directly in front of him, five bottles on five checked squares.

In the harbor a flock of Bufflehead ducks, tiny pierrot clowns, wove themselves between the orange winter-sticks and dived.

Down towards the cove it was all iced-up, and the floes creaked in their miniature sea. It was a monochromatic kind of day, gray and bleached, at the end of February.

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Published in The Drum: A Literary Magazine for Your Ears.

It began on a Monday.  At first it was only a gentle steady shower.  Being spring, people were not surprised.  In the sky appeared a panoply of colorful and see-through spheres and crumpled newspapers in all shapes and sizes.  Commuters swore, forecasters grinned, and life went on.

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Published in Alimentum.

It’s the way he says it.  Cauliflower is chou-fleur, “cabbage flower”.  For potato, pomme de terre, “apple of the earth”.  For grapefruit, pamplemousse.  He could not tell me the reason for pamplemousse.  And then he laughed.

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