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Early Ventures in Real Estate
Until recently, I’d never been involved in buying or selling a home. What little I knew was based on watching 347 episodes of Love It or List It. Putting your house on the market requires a lot more than posting a sign in the yard with the words “For Sale,” blood-colored paint dripping from each letter. While this might attract a certain clientele—namely someone who sleeps in a casket and requests midnight showings—most house hunters expect something more professional. This is why you need a r -
Fictus
Roman Black first learned the news at exactly 4:06 a.m. He didn’t wake up until the third ring and answered the phone in a haze. The words he heard sent a jolt down his spine; he sat up in bed to listen more clearly. “How?” he asked. The explanation—and the problem—made less sense the more Diana spoke. He told her he would be there as soon as he could. Ending the call, he moved quietly around the room to gather clothes. “What’s going on?” Peter asked. “A problem at the museum. A Matisse has -
Fragments
by Brian MosherFragments, like flashes of light, illuminating a moment, leaving the next moment in darkness along with the last. She is a collection of movements as she walks through the park, late afternoon, early fall. Around her, everything flows to the uneven rhythm of the moving air, in harmony but independently, not so much in concert as in sympathy. The swirling hem of her skirt rises and falls, revealing a knee, a fragment of thigh, then concealing. Her hair, blown by the same breez -
Help Wanted
I saw the ad in the local paper. It was stuffed into a corner, barely three lines: Travel, see the sights. No experience needed. Call (555)733-8436 or come to the open house, Thursday at St. Patrick’s Church, 1 to 3 in the basement meeting hall. It sounded okay, and it wasn’t like they could harvest my organs in the basement of a Catholic church. I needed something; everything else had fallen through, and the rent was due in a week. It was Wednesday afternoon, so I rummaged through my closet an -
Candymantle
What’s it like being raised in a candy shop? There’s fire in the kettle. Made up of a thousand little mirrors of you, one in each hand-beaten dimple of the copper. There is wood. Carved by hand, axe-head heft, palm-stained by years of use. There is ash on the furnace. There is sugar and blood. And sweat. Always sweat. And a burner quietly screaming amongst the howls and shakes and thuds of propane pipes. There is soot. It lines the walls, makes a heat-map of every joint and joist beneath the d
Fictus
Fragments
