Fall 2005 • Vol. XXVII No. 4 Fiction |

The “Boston Globe” Personal Line

The room behind Krishnamurthi was dense with the darkness of summer. Outside, bright sunlight was everywhere. Massively perched on the deck railing, hot and shiny on the grill, it deepened the pools of shade under trees. Where the lawn became patchy and yielded to loam and woods at the rear, he spotted the long cylindrical bird feeder shifting slightly in the air. Draws chickadees, Raji had told him. It was empty now. The one time he filled it with birdseed he was overcome with so much rancor that it frightened him. He turned away from the window and walked down the hall. As he passed the girls' rooms it struck him that it had been months since he stepped inside those rooms. Vacant, the rooms yawned cavernously behind their doors. He quickly went down the steps. In the kitchen he made some tea. Huge rectangles of sunlight covered the table that was strewn with sections of the Sunday Boston Globe. On Sundays he lay in bed waiting for the soft thunk when the boy pitched the pr

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Digesting the Father

By Kellie Wells

The room behind Krishnamurthi was dense with the darkness of summer. Outside, bright sunlight was everywhere. Massively perched on the deck railing, hot and shiny on the grill, it deepened […]

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