fiction

    Nostalgia-driven groups on Facebook are common. The one I joined has 5,000 members. We’re mostly boomers and our posts start with the phrase:

    “You know you’re from Massapequa...

    She was only interested in getting there. Getting there fast and first. No stopping, no pausing at every pole and post for Boo, as she was affectionately and lovingly known by her family.

    She...

    I sat in Miss Larsen’s English class and with my classmates listened to a tuba player across an open yard practicing scales. Or one scale,  middle C to the next C in the octave. He was having a hard time of it.

    I hadn’t done something that scared the crap out of me in a long while. I missed it. I wanted to feel my heart pounding, all the while telling myself that I didn’t care, trying to be nonchalant.

    Dolores struggled to pull out the wad of mail stuffed into her tiny mailbox. She was stretching on her tiptoes to reach it. The lobby of the six-floor walk-up tenement where she lived was littered with pizza boxes and take-away...

    I’ll call him John. Names don’t really matter. People change, reinvent themselves, become characters in various of life’s little dramas. It won’t make any difference to you what I call him as long as I...

    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...

    I sit down and drift back to my Italy — the Italy where I grew up; specifically, the aroma from the kitchen. The voices begin to call me back.

Let’s get red wine, forget about the rest,
except be kind to strangers lest they be
angels in disguise. Oh holy bookstore
I slept in a rug on your floor
in December 1996, beer and poems
for inspiration....