F L O G

To the audience it may have seemed like Arthur Dodd was watching angels—at least that's how his mother used to describe Arthur's long preoccupations staring at things no one else could see. But that was sixty years ago, when he was a child and such imaginative explanations were necessary. Now... →

McCarty watched his neighbor with mild amusement. His activities were enough to draw his attention away from his magazine, but not for long. He took a long sip of his lemonade, switched his feet to cross the other way on his pool recliner, then looked back down at the page. Joseph, McCarty's... →

The chaos had ended. Outside he knew that throngs of people still marched steadily westward, into the hills beyond the city, but now they walked slowly. The sense of panic and purpose that held sway while everything around them seemed to collapse and turn to dust had abated as tidily as the... →

I know all about the last painting in Irene Burgman’s last show: Number 22, “Nicholas,” a beautiful painting of the artist’s dog against a background of deep blue and purple velvets that look real enough to grasp. I know all about it because I was there when she painted it, and for this... →