BLOOD AND GUTSTEIN

Ring tones rouse the Big Fella in the four-seater, windowless. He’d fallen asleep with his lunch in his lap, after rainy day fliers ...

You know the holiday season approaches when songs like “Jingoism Bells” play on the radio. Whatever the sky a cloud field. How can I te...

When the world ends, I think the thermometer will read 45 degrees. I don’t imagine lava eddying with 7-11 debris aflame, the sun any c...

A street slopes downhill, an acute drop, forcing me to govern my stride. (Maybe this isn’t my town, after all.) The kind of second-story...

A rare, early photo when the  five  militants were seven. There are five people and they are militant but mostly it’s just raw milit...

You can’t find the toast. Where could it be, besides the toaster? But you’ve checked the two slots, their orange-hot wires cooling. Th...

V. Putin fastens a Cold War, Soviet-style sports bra: straps like umbrella handles, indifferent material akin to upholstery, a clasp t...