On the evening of the first Passover seder, traffic on the Long Island Expressway heading east into the suburbs was massive, slow-moving and maddening, just as Martin Weissman expected.
The music of Chopin brings together a mysterious young Hungarian Holocaust survivor and an American music student. But just when romance is in the air, he vanishes.
Today, another of my usual jogs—the thousandth step of a thousandth run, every run varied enough to include something new.
Simcha was the man who sold air from the Holy Land, not to be confused with those unimaginative con artists who sold oil from the Oily Land or water from the Dead Sea.
His children relocated him from the small Greenwich Village apartment where he and his late wife, Susan, had raised their family, to the Scarsdale Sinai Home, for a short time on the assisted living unit and then to the Alzheimer’s floor.
I learned photography from the streetcar man. “Windows to life,” Mr. Stilson had professed. “Humanity on paper.”
Sometimes I’m scared I’ll call my surviving daughter by her sister’s name, Becky, the one who was lost, when Talia is the one who’s still here.
Smoke rises slowly from the locomotive’s chimney, hissing from the valves and swirling in clouds over the face of the train.
Roi’s old friend from the army, Tal, had been an actor before he got religious, and now he wanted to make another film and wanted Roi to do it. An action flick.
Jed Phillip Cohen’s fiction short story is the winner of 2018 Moment Magazine Karma Foundation short fiction competition.
