“That depends,” she said, rolling the glass between her palms until condensation dripped onto her knees. The ice clinked like a metronome counting down. “You still enjoy Brahms?” His left eyebrow twitched—almost imperceptibly—but she caught it. Caught the way...

A ghostly migration drifts across the indigo shelfof the evening, a caravan of souls unmoored fromthe gravity of clay.They do not march; they flow like spilled milkthrough the rafters of the stars, a silent processionof translucent weight.There are no...

"Tally-ho!" startling a murder of crows below the gnarled oak where they'd been perched. The raspy cry carried across the field—half greeting, half warning—but from whom, or to whom, remained unclear— with a scent of earth clung to their...

Miles Corbin, a footloose writer of "Sinful Persuasion", and a number of other trashy novels now in Bethlehem, a town in New York, chasing rainbows and Bohemian girls. He lived alone in a cheap apartment over a massage parlor,...