Stories by
Daniel Galef

They said there was something new in her paintings afterward—something new in her old paintings. Context, maybe. Regret. And the faces.

Daniel Galef is landscape-oriented.

He only wears the wedding ring around his mistress. He got it at a pawn shop by his apartment and liked the sound of the name on the inside.

Daniel Galef has a website.

The old man frowns at the encyclopedia and swipes neatly with a pen. A thousand miles away, an obscure mountain top abruptly grows ten feet.

Daniel Galef (@DanielGalef) makes emends.

I never had arthritis, but my husband did. It wasn’t mentioned in the will, but I feel like Frank would have wanted me to have it.

Daniel Galef has a Twitter account, @DanielGalef.

The leak in the ceiling remains, which he said he would take care of when he got back. It drips, and forms an invisible stalagmite of hope.

Daniel Galef (@DanielGalef) is not responsible for the actions of fictional characters.

Becalmed; sails, limp and lifeless. A hundred and fifty men near starved. But, three weeks later, a miracle: all hundred men have survived.

Daniel Galef (@DanielGalef) is exquisite in red sauce and best paired with a subtle rose.

We talked philosophy all through the night, until the sun didn’t come up. When she finally left, I was no longer sure who or if we were.

Daniel Galef writes things sometimes.

We pile in, wailing with the siren, start the first of a million card games, ignore the banging on the bunker door; it stops soon enough.

Daniel Galef reads when he isn’t writing.

The goodbye note, all I had left of her, was spotted with little drops, smudging the paper. They looked like tears, but smelled like scotch.

Daniel Galef writes when he isn’t reading.

One candy heart out of a billion says: I know it can never be the same, and that’s okay. I smile and think of you, then wish I hadn’t.

Daniel Galef reads when he isn’t writing.