Fiction

Since both of us worked full time, we tried to have dinner together as a family with our daughter every evening that we didn’t have any social obligations. One night at dinner when my daughter was three years old she was shoveling in chicken and rice at such an alarming rate that I was worried she would throw up.

It was no frisson. It was dread, dire — and deserved. College Boards were slated for the following Saturday. With my nonexistent preparation for them (too many homeworks hastily copied from friends on the subway to school — if done at all), I cadged 90 cents from my beleaguered mother to buy the miracle book “How to Improve Your Vocabulary in [X]...

Karl Hann stood partially hidden behind the curtains of his kitchen window as his neighbor David Wachler went off to work. He watched him open his umbrella against the morning rain, descend the stairs in front of his apartment, then walk to the end of the street. When he disappeared around the corner, Karl realized he couldn’t recall exactly when...

Travis was at a party he wanted no part of. He had become introspective and less accessible to people as he got older. Perhaps two failed marriages, two children who barely acknowledged his existence, and a failed business endeavor resulting in a personal bankruptcy had contributed to that. He was more content to spend evenings at home watching...

Bruce Buschel is a writer, producer, director, and restaurateur who lives in Bridgehampton.

Almost 30 years have passed since I discovered what I romantically thought of as my “little path to the sea.” I can still remember clearly and easily the landscape that surrounded it.

The last time I ever saw Uncle Abbie he was running through the pristine potato fields beyond our house in Sagaponack cradling america in his arms.

It happens every year. The holidays roll in and they all start crying in their cups about the one that got away or the years that got away or the bygones that won’t stay gone.

I met Doc when we first worked at a resort hotel one long-ago summer. We called him Doc because he was intent on going to medical school. But Doc was no rich kid. He was an orphan, raised by poor immigrant grandparents. Doc was earning enough money to pay his med school tuition by sleeping with hotel guests, widows and wealthy divorcees. Just...