Archives about BOA Short Fiction Prize
Aaron said, Look Chet, I’m just like you, okay? I don’t use pesticides on my lawn, I give to Habitat for Humanity, and I vote for the Democrats. So what’s the big deal? I want my children to have a viable future, that’s all. You don’t have any children, I said. That’s true, Faye said.
By nature a bus is a vehicle with an amiable face. It belched blue and the haze flew up bluer between soaring glass, steel, brick. The city was sticky and hard. For example, if a guy didn’t notice the white ground or the winter-bare trees in the median islands or the manhole covers rusted and
It’s funny how I remember things. The tiny delicate-looking man in the bar in Malaysia—when we were always traveling somewhere after the baby died and before Gladys came along. That man approached us with such friendliness and courtesy. He was wandering around in the bar wearing a brown suit. “How good to see fellow countrymen,”