Stories by
Dan Reiter

Baby teeth rattle like dried corn in a plastic box. She shuts the childproof drawer, accepts her parents as caricatures.

Dan Reiter wishes the world were rounder.

He couldn’t feel my face when I was a baby. His hands were too rough, or I was too soft. Like cinderblocks on silk, mother said.

Dan Reiter believes in partial telepathy.

Poured from a dusty bottle of Bordeaux: wine she’d been saving for a special moment.

Dan Reiter thinks half a true story is better than

She wet his shirt with her tears, and he smiled behind her neck. No one loses his mind twice, he told himself. The Cheshire moon agreed.

Dan Reiter has trouble accepting the obvious.

Lost in the border crossing was the cold sun, the blood on the plywood, and how the men backed up against the wall. She went inside to cry.

Dan Reiter has already forgotten your name.