Fiction

Georgie McFadden marched with purpose through the twice-baking summer heat that radiated from above and ricocheted from below off the endless pavement as he headed toward the one-hour photo shop on Third Avenue.

It was fall in Charlottesville. The air was still warm, leaves crunched beneath the feet of many thousand students treading brick-laid paths on their return to campus, and Annie and I were smitten with each other. We had met a month or so into our first year at college, I from Long Island and she from Lynchburg, Virginia. I lived in the dorm next...

When I was a kid on Long Island in the ’60s no one ever wondered what characters their parents were going to be for Halloween. Unlike Memorial Day, when families went to the beach together, or July Fourth, when all the neighborhood adults had barbecues, set off fireworks, and got drunk on Schaefer beer, Halloween was reserved for the 13-and-under...

Out in the water, to the right, is a rock in the shape of a lion’s head. It rests its chiseled chin on the salty tide. The rest of its body is hidden by the sea, like a lot of things out here. Some people are not sure that the rock looks like a lion, but I am. I have heard it roar.

Jason was really bugging me in the car but I wasn’t too mad because I had my special things to show Annie even though today isn’t show and tell.

After his 1940 visit to Paris, when Werner Schrader obtained several Impressionist paintings from a Jewish gallery owner, handing over a reichsmark note for far below what he believed the paintings were worth, the German Intelligence officer returned to Paris one other time. It was in July 1942.

On a cool June morning Werner Schrader enters the Citibank branch on Fifth Avenue and 51st Street. He moves down the stairs to the vault and extracts a small safety deposit box key from his inside jacket pocket. A suit jacket doesn’t conceal a chest still thick and muscular despite his 64 years.

Maybe it was the sun beating through the window, shining and warming the coat of the old Great Dane, the harlequin Great Dane, the huge black and white dog that always welcomed the sun, and attention from everyone. He made the clientele feel good. I loved him. The scene in the sunny bay window always had the cat nearby, close to the Dane; it...

I am 85. It is a state of being that was virtually unimaginable until the morning it ensued. I am in treatment for lymphoma, but I sleep well and have little discomfort.

I stood there with my wife, son, and niece, fists balled as I found the familiar name on the wall. But only for a moment. The anger and rage were replaced by sadness and regret.

My son and I opened the garage door on a hot August morning in 2014 and inside was my late friend Rocky’s brilliant Rosso Corsa 1961 MGA roadster, a magnificent motorcar complete with black hide seats, wood steering wheel, and no seat belts. Oh boy. “Lets see if it still has the ’B&B’ motor.” Just as found.

I spent 30 summers or so in the Hamptons. When my family first moved there I at first thought the signature phrase “the Hamptons” referred to a set of small towns at the end of Long Island where extremely wealthy people have their second or third summer houses, and where aspiring young New Yorkers spend their weekends sharing rented houses on the...

It is the summer of 1971, and I am sitting on my bed in my room. The print on the bedspread is from India, and I cherish it the same way I cherish the Day-Glo posters on my wall and the manual Brother typewriter on my desk. These are the things that hug me.