Pulling out of the driveway, Claudia’s car passes their car, waiting to pull in. Max is driving. Lacey’s auburn hair casts remarkable light. From behind the windshield, Claudia forces a smile. But she sees Lacey about to open her window—obviously to say hello. Claudia presses the gas pedal. They’ll get to that later. She promised Lacey, no hiding. After all, in the spring Lacey will marry this man, making Claudia his mother-in-law. Arranging this visit, Lacey explained, “We’re eloping, Mom... Read Full Story

My mom’s waiting in the glass-walled library because I asked her here. But now I’m embarrassed, ready to run and hide. My mom’s not embarrassing, not at all. It’s me. Half way through my first semester at college, I wake up screaming. Meanwhile, my roommate cries all the time. Last night I dreamed that surgery-gone-wrong had attached my organs outside my body. The lower intestine? Disgusting. I had to wind it up like a hose and duct tape it to my hip. I heard sniffling and scratching and woke... Read Full Story

Jonathan’s wife, Lucy, who had died ten years ago, rarely let a month pass without haunting him. Occasionally, however, when he would really appreciate a word from her, she stayed away. He prayed to her much the way he had when she was alive: silent pleas that she would love and understand him; that she wouldn’t desert him. Which, he believed, she had, driving her new Toyota over the Tappan Zee Bridge at four a.m. In the last weeks of her life, she had played a Charles Mingus record almost... Read Full Story

After last night, Carlos says they no longer need me at the meetings. Early this morning when he and Maggie convene in my chambers to review the daily agenda, he says, “Malcolm, now that we’re in multimedia we can run things on auto-pilot.” [This is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here for the first episode, or here for the previous one.] “Great.” “You should only show up if you feel like it. From now on, let’s say you make, oh I don’t know, one appearance a week.” “Fine... Read Full Story

Tonight my biggest fear (now my ex-biggest fear) came true, and nothing happened. Slinking among the nether reaches of my mind, along with what if I die? what if I’ve already died and this murk of uncertainty, this frantic limbo of futility is my eternal punishment?—has lurked till now a more distinct fear: What if I walk on stage, open my mouth before a full house, and nothing comes out? [This is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here for the first episode, or here for the... Read Full Story

Jeanine and I work doing data entry. On Fridays, we cross the street and drink daiquiris before going home. We’d seen him around, straight black hair he tossed back, heavy eyelids covering the bluest eyes, and a weird, thick mustache. His smile was enormous and he floated over to our table with such practiced languor; he had to be kidding. Still, I ran off to fix my mouth: shell-pink pencil, matte lipstick, concealer and fixative. When I returned, he watched me even while telling Jeanine that... Read Full Story

Joyce Payson was saying good-bye to her daughter Emma for the second time since her daughter had gone to college. The first time Joyce visited, her existence as Emma’s mother, or something, had caused acute embarrassment. This time, however, Emma introduced her mom to everyone in sight. Much as Joyce appreciated this, she was mostly relieved that her daughter had found a way down from such anxiety. They were getting her overnight bag from Emma’s dorm room and were halfway down the steps, when... Read Full Story

Once, after his dad slammed 10-year old Matt’s head against the door to teach him to close the refrigerator so it was sealed shut, his mother pulled him outside the cabin. She draped an arm around him, leading him to the pier and saying how much his dad loved him. When Matt asked why, his mom said, “Sometimes the more you love someone the more you demand from him. Like God—the people He loves best, He makes suffer the most.” When Matt’s dad wasn’t hitting him, he sometimes held Matt’s... Read Full Story

Seattle, this time: I’m off to visit my parents and aunt and cousin there. In the meantime, if I’ve set my clock correctly, short fictions (fewer than 500 words!) that I originally wrote for Mike French’s on-line magazine, The View from Here should appear here on weekdays. With luck, this will limit Malcolm to Saturday and Sunday nights, at least for now. I enjoy writing these thumbnail fictions more than I would have guessed. The word limit was my idea. Mike was open to whatever I wanted to... Read Full Story

The new shop is so graceful, stately, and tranquil as to suggest the antithesis of a shop. It hardly seems possible anything so crass as commerce, so gross as chewing and swallowing transpires here.Oh, people eat, but with such rapt concentration the act borders on prayer. They pay, but so wholeheartedly, each transaction seems like a sacred offering. Semi-subliminal hymns fill the air but not constantly; every now and then the shuffle function selects a pause. [This is an excerpt from Diary... Read Full Story