Who says reading is an activity limited to your couch and a cup of tea? Over spring break, I had the chance to travel around to the homes, museums, and fictional locations of authors whose works I have been reading in my Italian literature course. My class teamed up with a Latin class to travel to Sicily, Italy. Over the course of ten days, we toured around the island, visiting ancient sites as well as literary sites related to the 20th century Sicilian writers we were studying. From statues to tombs to street signs, these Sicilian towns have all chosen different ways to preserve the legacy of these writers and their fictional characters, providing ample evidence (not that any of us needed it) that characters really do live off of the page. We began in…

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  The seventh-floor studio apartment in the Soho District of New York was $4,000 a month and had been vacant for three months. The previous renter was an artist and left everything behind. He had 220 wiring installed for his kiln, which sat proudly on high-temp blocks. The electric potter’s wheel sat wanting for attention and shelves lined the north wall that still displayed thrown bisque-fired pots patiently waiting for their glazing. The west wall held an apartment-sized refrigerator, sink and small granite countertop that presented a hot plate, coffee pot, and a mug tree, which held a single cup. Bare wooden slats squeaked under the pressure of footsteps, dusty from layers of dried clay splashed on the floor. The greatest attribute of the studio was the windows. Total glass along the east side allowed…

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The sound of whispers and shuffling feet fell from the welcoming side of a dark burgundy curtain. Its mass was hung and stretched across the full width of an auditorium stage. Hidden behind its thickness was Samantha, sitting nervously, at a baby grand piano. She was silently rehearsing a selected piece of music in her head while at the same time trying desperately to block out the noise. It was the night of the eighth annual music recital at Benton Junior High School, and her first time to play in front of a large audience. Slowly, the heavy curtain opened with a lazy glide across the stage floor. The snapping sound from the spotlight quickly broke her concentration and instantly engulfed her. Frozen and unable to move, the sound of her pounding fear grew louder…

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Hotel Doorman Passes the Time of Day, Mexico City  “New, that one’s suit, bargain sale somewhere but see, the woman with him: style, not ‘a la moda,’ just herself…and him? chingada! beltless jeans, baseball cap, leftist for sure (they’re all alike), that one hiding fat with shawls, ah! look, politician—silk shirt, chin shaved so close it shines (narcos buy Rolex watches, Chargers t-shirts, whores wear open shoulder blouses, spandex pants), banker that one, necktie with a bit of swirl (see the clasp?) and here? aerobic miss (who else could wear jeans that tight?) Faces lie but clothes? Clothes don’t hide what people want to hide. “   Lennon, after the First Hamburg Tour Drank orange juice, ate eggs his foster mother fried, watched re-runs on the telly, sketched obscene cartoons. Beyond the ironed curtains, Naugahyde,…

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“Prisoners of the Multiverse” is taken from a story collection entitled The Liar’s Asylum, just published by Black Lawrence Press. It first appeared in the New Orleans Review. ~ The defining and indelible event of our pre-college years—for me and for my cohort of honors-level classmates at Laurenville High School—was the suicide, at age forty-two, of our twelfth grade physics teacher, Vance Rottman.  We wouldn’t have been surprised if dowdy Miss Ayler, who so worshipped Virginia Woolf, had filled her pockets with stones and vanished into the Rappahannock.  Or if the fastidious Latin teacher, Dr. Ismay, had fallen on a vintage sword like his defeated Roman generals.  But the image of Vance—for that was what we all called him—bolting himself inside his gear-packed office, where only months earlier he’d rigged a working model of the…

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We sat side by side in the quiet café, a stone’s throw from the Parc de Sceaux, famous for its Château. Outside it rained. A woman passing with a dark blue umbrella stopped and peered at us. For a moment I thought she was going to come and join us at our table. She looked familiar, her face somewhat twisted, possibly anguished. Clearly the battle to remain an individual in the angst-ridden city had taken its toll on her. “Do you know her?” you asked, staring at a spot left of my head. “I do not,” I said, turning to see what it was you stared at. The waiter. “Monsieur,” he said, clicking his heels and bowing his head. “A bottle of rouge, please,” I said. He stared at me for a moment, his eyes…

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