Femke knows it’s not sex. They’re still enjoying each other’s bodies, and he never smells of anything but himself. She trusts her nose, her hunter’s sense. It’s not sex.

Outside the Rembrandt café was a tramp, a woman with the haunted look of the long-term unlucky. She was wrapped in layers of flannel and wool and sat hunched on the stoop, smoking a cigarette, blowing her breath against her…

Put a character in a house with a porch and a yard, and call the place old, even though less than two centuries weigh it down. A picket fence is useful, along with a crabapple tree. Mention alcohol abuse or…

It’s easy to disappear in the dampness of this town. Twelve moons ago, my mother wandered through a murky labyrinth of streets and bridges, crossing canal after canal—like I do now—leaving no footsteps. Cold air snakes across her face and…

Our six phones flatline before we arrive. The world that wears us down is out of reach. We alight from the car feeling airy and free. It's not our baggage that keeps us from floating; it's the weight of our…

Vic had his eye on a promise, a potentially fixable cool box buried underneath the junk. He was digging it up when the rain, only nagging before, began to bucket down. He rushed to the edge of the dump and…