The Year They Invented Frozen Lemonade "I am midtown. Manhattan?" Linda Winkelman speaks her question out loud in the middle of the rush hour push; no one notices. She can not recall who she is or why she is here. "I remember lemonade," says Linda. Buildings disappeared, people disappeared. Now it is her turn. Linda Winkelman was born the year they invented frozen lemonade.	Dead Man in the YardThere was a dead man in the yard this morning. I checked in my wallet for my latest picture of the front yard. I have a collection of yard pictures that goes back for years but I usually carry only one photo at a time. No, he was a new arrival. I called Sheila. Sheila is my ex-wife.	McMuckle Makes a MinyanThe ineffable, unnamable God of Hosts stood with a burly, bearded personage who held a bar towel draped over one arm, a symbol of his trade. The golem toyed nervously with an ear. "My people should quake at My unutterable Name, not fall on their tukhes," said God. The ear came off. "Bim... this is not about you. Try to stay on topic."
The Song of the Rice Barge Coolie "Oh, Jim—it's a full cape," trilled Ginny Levitan. Their house-to-be cuddled coyly behind a tangle of alders and runaway roses. The house was not unoccupied. Beneath the floors, past wide boards of ancient pumpkin pine pumiced, oiled and varnished by successive generations of householders disappeared, dead or run away, lay the galleries of the Long Walkers.	A Pass on the TabouliErrol Flynn reclined in a lavender-scented bath and extended a tanned hero's arm to make a fist. He suspected the studio had kept him stuffed with hormones and cloned organs for the last seventy-five years all for this one last remake. How many Kims had it been? Damned Kipling. Flynn wished he had read the fine print on the resurrection form.	Return of the Orange VirginThe stone heads—Cow, Goat and Manticore—were malign at first glance, the distillation of a dead craftsman’s nightsweats and horrors. The Orange Virgin rose and transferred a kiss from her fingertips. “Fare-thee-well, friends. Keep my secrets. We go to perform great works.” Goat’s lugubrious striped vanilla tongue lay across the floor; the Cow’s blind eyes stared at nothing. A Serial Novel • a new chapter each month
E Pluribus Human"YO, BABE!" a man's voice blared at Grenadine McKenzie, "SURPRISE, YOU'RE PREGNANT." A craggy male face bloomed before her. The face was a hero's face, Lance Davenport from Rights of Spring. There was an odor of patchouli.	Scope Virgin The woman at the far end of the kaleidoscope had not been there last week, of this Simon was sure. She was naked or near enough, thinly dressed in a diaphanous veil. "Holy shit!" Simon Alexander breathed on the lens and gave it a wipe with his sleeve. "I see that I have your attention..." said the woman, "...finally."	Platterland It was a real nice laying-out—tasteful. Well, maybe not so much tasteful particularly, but neat. They’d got Ed’s left arm attached to his head and not his shoulder. And they had the remaining right arm attached on the left side. To look like them, I supposed.