Death in the Wasteland

Fiction

I am one of those solitary, melancholy messengers

To Whom cherished gifts are not given.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

Excerpt from: The Golden Triangle

Fiction

From her hotel window in Demarang Minou had a view of a square where vendors sold coconuts, mangoes, soda, rice and goat wrapped in banana leaves. It was very hot and at street level the sir smelled of motorbike exhaust and close cigarettes.

The Most Beautiful Word

Fiction

I think “vesicle” is the most beautiful word in the English language. He was lying face down, shirt burnt off, back steaming. I myself was bleeding. There was a harvest of vesicles on his back. His body wept.

The Fox Hole

Fiction

“Oh Great,” she yelled, “a fox hole!” and jumps right in. And just in time, too, because a shell immediately explodes a few feet away, throwing a clump of dirt on her head.

Room

Fiction

We used to live in an old house. One of those European old houses that didn’t make it to the New World. Built back in the days when Europeans were still busy destroying Europe.

Table of Contents

Fiction

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MARCH-APRIL 2002

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