My story “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” in New Flash Fiction Review begins, “You don’t remember, but I was thirteen when I met Mort…”
We lived temporarily in a development in New Jersey in the early nineties while we looked for an apartment to rent. Every day at 3 PM the mail carrier arrived, and every day the doors opened in tandem and women in the same twinset with the same toddlers ran to the mailbox like it was their lifeline. It looked like the loneliest existence in the world, and a way of life I knew I’d write about someday.
Sage Tyrtle 