I opened the door to see who’d been knocking and saw just the same few brooms and old jugs of bleach, huddled in the corners of the closet.
Daniel Galef and David Galef have been writing stories in Nanoism for ten years.
Slim jim and mini whisky bagged, the buzzing fluorescence of 7-11 numbs me. A two-faced sign labels the outside world CLOSED. I believe it.
Daniel Galef has sunken to shameful déps.
My mother died one morning in bed when I was ten. What I want to know, after all these years, is whether my father slept there that night.
David Galef is a work in progress.
At the textile mill she marveled as a bobbin spun so fast it blurred into a fuzzy, ghostly ball. Her two ancient sisters looked on uneasily.
Daniel Galef spinnt doch.
January is the month of Galef, featuring stories from son and father Daniel and David Galef.