On the evening of the very last day of 2010, my husband and I zig-zagged our way through the Musashi-Kosugi train station markets where I admired clear plastic boxes of fresh shrimp tempura and soba.
Ramblings while on a slow suburban death.
Category: Short Stories
I saw, I wrote.
In the year of my early youth when my father was charged with bringing me to the Emporium rooftop for an afternoon of Santa photos and Christmas rides, he bundled me into a series of sweaters and scarves so tight that I began to sweat while riding the 5 Fulton.
My sister and I spent many of our Thanksgivings with Patricia’s family in a light purple flat deep in San Francisco’s Richmond district.
The ritual post-Thanksgiving writing exercise required that Sister Linda’s third grade class detail the holiday events.
My father forced me to go to the polling booth with him every year. Dressed in my Catholic school uniform, I would walk with him to the local polling station, where he would force me to stay in my spot as he moved towards a heavy apparatus that looked like an essential part of Frankenstein’s laboratory.
The team of my youth, the San Francisco Giants, has just won its third World Series in five years. It is an amazing accomplishment, though it is still difficult for me to fully comprehend.
(my steady hand)
On a recent vacation, my husband and I found ourselves walking past dozens of stumbling drunk people who would abruptly stop in place to take a selfie, posing against the backdrop of casino lights and celebrity impersonators that would dot the Vegas streets.
On a humid summer afternoon in Kawasaki, my mother sailed into the house, leaving her heeled sandals in the doorway before stepping up onto the dark and polished wooden floor of the kitchen.
This was not a pizza dream.
A serial killer had gotten around to killing some friends, a horrible thing when I ran across San Francisco’s Polk Street looking for a futon shop.
Hit and run is the new black
Published by Anna Pirhana on January 22, 2015On my second full solo outing with my husband’s Lexus, a charcoal grey car that he cherishes and cares for as a child, I had the misfortune of having some young punk’s motorcycle leave a giant dent followed by a trail of a long, deep scratch on the front end of his car.