Author: Frank J. Tassone

I bring Frankie out of his bedroom. It is 10:00PM, but he was not asleep. The Yankees play the Orioles in the Bronx. It is the top of the ninth inning; the home team...

The orange trail ascends Halfway Mountain. Yellow and brown elm leaves blanket the flanks of the path. As I say something to Mira, I jump with a start. Inches away, a black rat snake...

The bitter-sour flavor of hot-and-sour soup. The doughy texture of the fried dumplings. Fresh sushi. The tangy sweetness of General Tso’s chicken. The sweet, creamy deliciousness of soft-serve vanilla ice cream. No wonder the...

I nurse a cup of coffee at the kitchen table, staring out the storm door. The darkness will crack at any moment. Inky black will fade to a deep purple, before transforming into a...

The last line of sunlight on the western horizon. A ruffle of papers, the rattle of a ceiling fan. A memory of the plastic crabs that I had come to possess. Was it at...

The late 1910s. Grandpa Vuolo wore it on those cold days when he looked for work. It was black wool, fine as camel hair, with a raised collar and large button; the coat easily...

The dishwasher hums, and the whooshing of its water drowns out the crickets. I eat my oatmeal out of Frankie’s Frosted Flakes bowl: not another clean one remains. warm aftertasteempty pill containersbeside bottles

A new light illuminates the dashboard. I divert to Midas, in vain, as the shop opens at 7:30. I don’t have time to wait. The manual says that the light indicates my tire pressure...