Short Stories

“With the world in chaos, I find calm in the pristine science of gravity readings, equipment sanitation, and hops schedules.”

“By the second month of the Goth House Experiment, David wanted to shoot Oscar Wilde dead. Trouble was, Oscar Wilde was already dead. Had been since the fin de siècle. But here he was, gray and translucent in a velour smoking jacket, drifting behind as David wandered through the drafty house, trying to get inspired.”

“Her name wasn’t even Daisy. That was his doing as well. “A man like Peter Walsh should have a wife with a proper English name,” he had told her.”

“Nandini memorizes her new identity: her name is Preeti Sriranganathan; she is nineteen years old; she wears glasses and lives at 75 Silver Springs Boulevard in Toronto.”

“I sat behind him the day he grew wings. I always seemed to be behind him — in class, in line during morning prayer — maybe that’s why I noticed him in the first place, before the wings, before everyone else did.”

“The sequins on the saree made Asha feel like an enormous glittering beetle, or like so many shards of broken glass winking in the sunlight. This saree was a green she had never seen in nature, a stately green with gold thread that darted through the six yards of fabric as she tried to rein it in around her body.”