A Parking Lot Full Of Stones

The party store the Guls owned was within walking distance of our house. But let me back up a minute to explain that very Midwestern sentence. In Michigan, where I grew up, a "party store" is not a place to buy helium-filled balloons, or economy packs of Power Ranger-themed napkins and paper plates, no. A …


In One Breath

A cop informed me that my son was both homosexual and dead. Shot at a bar he had apparently haunted. “Will you accept the body?” the cop asked. A thousand bats’ wings pulsed inside me before I said "No."


Before Prolixin, I had a brain full of bees. The beekeeper hummed as he collected honey most days, but when the buzzing crescendoed, I barely had time to run to my bare-windowed bedroom before he let the swarm block all the light.

Author Stephen King learns about his relatives’ progressive past

  Finding Your Roots returns this Tuesday night on PBS. I prefer this show over Who Do You Think You Are? Henry Gates, Jr. is a fantastic host: witty, friendly, caring. He makes a point in his research to uncover common themes between two or three different people's family trees. For instance, Tuesday's show is called "In Search …


As soon as Ryan whispered it, I asked for the bathroom. Seventy push-ups later, I came out sweaty and red. "Crohn's," I explained. The racist host handed us our coats. Ryan's other coworkers waved from the couch. "Perfect. Just like we practiced."


To describe Roly-Poly as homeless would conjure up the wrong image of him, I think. You see when I first moved from Ann Arbor, Michigan, to Chicago 12 years ago, homeless people intimidated me. I would throw coins at them just so they would leave me alone. Later, to save money, I adopted a more proactive approach. I …