È collected stories








AMY MULDOON sold her first novel in 1993, and has been pseudonymously writing popular fiction since. Her work has been translated into five languages, including Romanian, though nobody has told her why.
She is living an unterribly interesting life in the Seattle area, and is the mother of two surprisingly normal children.
Her collected short stories of ghosts, food, fires, and the suburbanly disturbed are being published by Pretend Genius Press sometime in 2007.
She is an occasional contributor at writethis.com, the ineffable home of filth and genius, and at Syntax, Denver's only arts and literary review.



All stories and contents of this page © Amy Muldoon, and may not be reproduced either in whole or part without permission of the author.








The following stories are fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Except, of course, those things which are true.


And then there are things which are mostly true.


And then again, there are some partly true things all mixed up with things that are not true at all.


It doesn't matter. Everything is just a story anyway, and eventually we are all nothing but words on a page.











































































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Monday, November 22, 2004
Short stories

 
 
 
For Rose Murphy on Saint Valentine's Day 
Mr. Murphy loves the television, and he measures time by the screen. He has 236 channels of life...



 Writing in a Treehouse  
My mother says, “Sweetheart, are you out of valium?” I am not, but I say, “Hell yes, if you’re giving it away.” She thinks this is funny.

 Secret Messages From The Amazing Ghost Boy 
Even when we write, what is being said is not always in the black type, but in the pale and empty space between, written in invisible ink.


 Eva 
When the man at Ellis Island changes Egeziaca’s name, he jabs an indifferent finger at her. “You. Your name is Eva. E-va,” he says, and the christening is sharp and brutal. This is how the world treats a big nosed girl.


 Gino Francisco and Skipping Rope 
the lion choked the monkey croaked and they all went to heaven in a little row boat
But not me. I am going straight to hell in Gino Francisco's Mercury Cougar.


 Saint Cecelia's Day 
So here it is, tapping against your perfect forehead. Swim in it, stoned on a dark August night. Words made flesh held against your tongue taken into your body. It is communion.


 Yesterday I Burned Things 
I said this to my daughter:
“If you’re bored, why don’t you go burn things? That’s fun. Here, honey, you can use my lighter.”


 A Recipe for Red Sauce written by Ghosts From Trieste
The ghost of my grandmother sat across the table and looked at me with a fiery eye.
"Try it," she said. "Some things can’t be written down."
"You’re not here," I say to her. 

Posted at 11:53 am by beyondthepale
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