Fiction

    This is my story of the summer of 1949. I was 9, chubby, not too athletic or to be more honest not athletic, but doted upon by many assorted aunts, maternal and paternal, and, of course, by my mother. I worshipped my fourth grade...

Before the onset of age and arteries breakfasts were freewheelin’ affairs runny sunny-side-up eggs on a stack with crispy bacon and greasy home fries buttered white toast and java black heated debates with friends and foes cigarette...

    Southampton, Majors Path, age 5: Sunday late afternoons Dad would lift me onto his bike and pedal through long green lanes to Sip ’N’ Soda, where we’d lick matching banana cones. Wet creamy fruit on our tongues,...
    The Star welcomes submissions of essays for its “Guestwords” column, of between 700 and 1,200 words, and of short fiction, between 1,000 and 2,000 words.     Authors can either e-mail their pieces (in...

    It seemed like a good idea at the time, if not a little bizarre; things were getting worse with Mother.     When we wheeled her to the park, the only thing that made Mom smile was the sight of children,...

    “They told me I’d be dead in a year and here I am drinking your ice cold beer.” He laughed, drained the glass, and ordered a second. “What do you make of that, Jack? That is your name, isn’t it?...

Some days I plod a measured mile Of graying asphalt road To keep old arteries from closing Or force new ones open. I’d rather not look ahead To still distant markers But at the dirty white sideline, Worn down to randomly regular...

Part Two

    “I started another novel in the country, by the aging pool with its shimmering poplars. The pool chair was so old that the fabric had ripped from the frame. Anyone who sat back in it literally caved in. The sky had clouded...