He fished in the pockets for his cigarettes, only to withdraw the Camel soft pack and find it empty. He pulled the dented door open with a metallic clang and squeal, crumpled the soft pack, and tossed it on the floor.
Fiction
In the House with the People (and other stories)
When our son was still an infant, we ran into the emotionless man on the street. You protectively wrapped your arm around me and our son snuggled against my chest.
The Bright Green Door
I’ve never heard my father speak. When I dream of his voice, it sounds like the work he does. Out comes hammering or sawing or digging. In my dreams, I understand what those sounds mean.