My father was a writer. He wrote articles, short stories, children's books, and satires. Short, sharp, funny parodies like, I'm Okay, but You're Not So Hot, and the literary scavengers' answer to ...  [+]

Everyone loved Auntie Joe's cat T. She got him when he was just eight weeks old—a curious, friendly, fearless gray tiger. He was hilariously clumsy, too. When leaping onto a table, he'd usually ...  [+]

I heard it before I saw it, a jingling of bells like the soundtrack to a corny Christmas movie. Then out of the mist rolled a small carriage, round and bright as a converted pumpkin. Florescent ...  [+]

Dapper in a topcoat and tails, feet moving fast and graceful as birds skimming still waters, he whirled and swooped, catching my mother, still young and slim, by the waist, bending her backward. She ...  [+]