where the writers are

Alysa Salzberg's Writings

Poem
Nov.01.2012
In a grimace, likeshe was dyingher downturned eyesslide off her round browncheeks.  A tongue the exactcolor of a strawberry and theshape of a worm, escapesher mouth and pointsupward.      I stare at her and seemy reflection beyond, skull-white.  My cheekboneslike the backs of twosmall shovel blades.       ...
Short Story
Nov.01.2012
“Hey Joe, what’s this pie doing in your tulips?”  My father propped his cigar neatly on the side of the thick, clear glass ashtray that brooded through all weather on our patio table, and walked over to where Uncle Calvin was standing.  My uncle was staring in surprise at the overturned pie tin and the whipped cream that streaked the leaves and flowers...
Short Story
Nov.01.2012
It was too bad about Roger’s tattoo: spreading the length and breadth of his back was a sort of cougar/bobcat/housecat hybrid, front paws brandishing broken shackles over its furry head.  If you looked closely, you could see that the black freckles of Roger’s skin had been used to create the illusion of the feline’s speckled belly fur. It’s not too bad about...
Short Story
Nov.01.2012
  As the car turned towards the dull beige façade of Harold’s New York Deli, Christopher experienced the same kind of nervous excitement you’d feel if you were unexpectedly invited to dine at the White House.   “All right,” his dad turned off the parked car.  They opened their doors in accidental yet beautiful synchronicity and walked the same...
Short Story
Nov.01.2012
The storm broke. It little mattered I was beneath several layers of leaves. I kicked Dorothy gently in her sides and we raced towards the opposite end of the hill, then downward. When I arrived, Benjamin was on the porch, sitting in a heap curled inward, not unlike a dead spider. “Miss Clary,” he hailed me. I dismounted and went directly for the door. Five...
Poem
Nov.01.2012
No fear is quite like a cold 5am question when you've nowhere to go and nothing to do but scratch your skin, hoping it's like an itch that will go away   
Nov.01.2012
At the Chinese restaurant, we pose for a photo positioned in a sort of pyramid. i am at the bottom my father leans over my left shoulder and you are at the top, smiling broadly, the last one of your generation. your face a pale oval, like mine.   “Mama always kept a kosher household.” i listen to your voice as soft as the palm that touched my hand when you...
Short Story
Nov.01.2012
  Now, when I first flew off that train, I didn’t panic.  I just tried to find out where I was.  If I’d known I was going to spend my new life as a laughingstock, though, maybe I wouldn’t have been so calm. I didn’t take me long to read “Paris Gare du Nord” on a sign, so that was that.  I was in the capitol, the City of Lights.  I flew a...
Short Story
Nov.01.2012
"Listen carefully," he said, "this won't be easy for you to hear". “What is it, Dad?”  “Your mother’s being held hostage.” Most people might gasp or react in some alarmed way to this, but knowing my mother like I did, I wasn’t overly surprised, although I didn’t know the exact circumstances.  I hadn’t talked to my parents in weeks, because of the snails...