Julie requested samples of some of my other fiction, but wanted it kept under 500 words. Hard to take 500 words out of something that was originally 30,000 or even 260,000 and have them remain impactful. Hopefully, these fragments will retain something of their original power (and, hopefully, originally, they had some power).

Did you think I would not be curious about your long conversation with Sezgin, after your aunt and uncle had gone to bed, when I was waiting for you under that ancient iron canopy? I listened to the whispers, comprehending the meaning of your words if not understanding every one. I heard Sezgin tell you about his memories of you, with the longing ripe in his voice. After the kiss, I imagine his hands slipping from your face to hold your waist. On your tiptoes, you strained to keep your lips in contact with his. He supported you, caressing your sides, pulling you toward his body. As your bodies pressed against each other, you were confused by your feelings. I know how innocent you were, how pure. Except I thought it was someone else who introduced you to the pleasures of the world.

Was it the return of Udi or Perihan that broke your first kiss, Safiye? What about that night, after the photo was taken? Was it the creak of the door as I opened it to watch your embrace?

If I sound bitter, please forgive me, because it is not anger or bitterness that I remember now. No, even when I imagine Sezgin lifting his hands to your breasts for the first time in that musty room, I smile. I smile because I am thinking of you. When I think of you in Istanbul, I think of the kiss you shared with Sezgin just before you came to our bed. I remember you lying down next to me, your hair drifting across my face. The smell of cloves and frankincense, of tobacco and coffee. You pressed your body, warm from Sezgin’s embrace, against mine. I had known where you were coming from. I knew Sezgin’s lips had moistened yours. But you were here with me, and your lips caressed my cheek so gently, expressing so much love. How could I resent you then, my Safiye?

From This Endless Day 

 My favorite part of the next story is the end—which I won't share—but this fragment contains some of my all-time favorite sentances.

My hands found his waist, and I pulled myself against his chest. I counted my breaths, knowing that after too few, I will have to return to Anne. Anne will ask me about our walk, and we will spend a few words. Anne will ask me if I'm still comfortable with this. I'll lie and say I'm having doubts, but I want to go through with it. Anne will take my hand and lead me to our bed. She'll pull back the sheets, and pull me under. We'll swim in those intimate waters for much longer than normal, until the pressure to be alone forces us up for air. Separating, we'll breathe in our solitude in great gasps before falling asleep with our backs together. A year before, those gasps would have been greeted with joy, the heady feeling of intimacy and solitude colliding. But tonight, my gasps will be those of the asthmatic, forced and desperate.

From a rather lengthy, published story with a Googlable name 

 Two excerpts from another story with a Googlable name. This is the one that earned me the big bucks and allowed me to wear my Professional Author shirt with only a minor dose of irony. Not that I own such a t-shirt.

I do remember when I first realized I liked boys. I was in sixth grade. Our town, the last great hippie enclave in Colorado, had acquired a new family, one torn from the Midwestern heartland by an economic incident or something like that. New families tended not to have our great freethinking, liberal values, so the adults were always a bit nervous about people coming from the Bible Belt. Later on, I was to learn that the Bible Belt is usually considered to be centered on Texas, Oklahoma, and other places where great droughts drive people to profound faith, but I was ten, so what kind of skeptic can you expect? This new family had a full complement of children, five spread from preverbal to prejail. The middle one also happened to be in sixth grade. His name was Paul.

Paul. Wow. A corn-fed, strappin’ youth if ever the sixth grade did see one. We immediately hated each other. I was top-dog in my grade at Roosevelt Elementary. The star of two state championship Little League teams, benevolent master of the playground, all-around winner and most-popular boy. And then, in the midst of a snowstorm, in comes this beef-boy from Indiana, expecting to get picked first. The storm prevented anything but tense circling, but two days later the class was released from the building into the fields of powder. Flying snowballs quickly evolved into flying fists and—this is so wrong—people cheering for both boys. Kids never, ever cheered for someone else. Didn’t happen, shouldn’t happen, couldn’t happen. But here it was, boys and girls chanting, “Get him, Paul!” Sure, more voices were yelling, “Go David, get him!” but….

If nobody had cheered for Paul, he probably would have won. It was close. There was blood spilled, bruises made that wouldn’t settle for days. However, I would not allow anyone to win when others were cheering for him. So I won. I knocked him down and pounded his face a few times until he cringed at my incoming blows. Then I walked away. I was, after all, the benevolent master.

We had been in and out of four or five stores when I saw Sarah. If only I hadn’t said anything. But I did. Lindsey grabbed my hand and ran over to Sarah and her gaggle of friends. She hugged Sarah, gave her a French-style kiss, and said, “Bonjour, mon ami.” Sarah took the hug stiffly and rolled her eyes during the cheek kiss. She almost forcefully ejected herself from the hug.

“Oh, hi, Lindsey.” The habitual false-friendliness in her voice barely covered its coldness. Lindsey was too intoxicated by her own excitement to notice.

“Wow, Sarah! Oh, you look great! How was your Christmas?!” I cringed inwardly at Lindsey’s undisguised enthusiasm in the face of Sarah’s obvious rejection. I wanted so much to get Lindsey away from Sarah, but there was no way to interject.

“Oh, it was okay. You know, Christmas.” Sarah looked away from Lindsey while talking. Her voice was completely flat. Her friends were receding into the crowd, shocked but giggling. Everybody but Lindsey knew this was a social disaster. Sarah probably wouldn’t sit around talking about it, but her friends would. Lindsey was in for some ugly times when school started again. Lindsey had never verbalized a crush to anyone but me before this horribly public miscalculation. There’s a difference between tolerating someone you know is different, and accepting them acting differently.

“Yeah?! I got this…” It was one of the painful things I will ever see. Lindsey, half-way through the sentence, finally understood. Everything about her changed. As if her localized gravity had tripled, she was visibly shorter. Her voice was hardly audible, “…um, you know, some stuff. It was, um, you, um, okay. See you.”

Lindsey had backed away a step or two while finishing her sentence. Then she lost her cool entirely and ran, pushing through the crowd with a face full of tears. I stood there for a second or two and stared at Sarah. I’m sure my face showed the emotion I felt. There is no word strong enough. My feelings toward her were beyond hatred, beyond loathing. They were satanic in their scale. I am a person of immaculate control. I never let someone have the power to anger me. However, I believe with absolute conviction if Sarah had said a single word to me at that point, I would have brought her to the floor and split her skull in two.

I found Lindsey in the parking lot, curled up at the door of my car. I opened the door and helped her into the passenger seat. There was no place to drive her to get away from her pain. We just sat in the car and she sobbed. I put her seat back, just like I’d done dozens of times to suck off some stud or another. I crawled next to her, the shift stick poking me in the back, the seatbelt-latch jamming into my ribs, and I held her until the sun set. Then I drove her home.