Tag Archives: William Miller

Here on Barracks Street, in the back of the Quarter, one bathroom fits all. In and out, all day and night, the locals have drunk their way through decades of change. Bras were burned long ago—the pill saved them from … Continue reading →

The river was black, smelled like Guinness and excrement. I looked for signs of Bloom out walking, a widening gyre in the starless sky. What I saw was three kids with metal pipes blocking my way. They smoked like old … Continue reading →

My cousin guessed you didn’t feel a grenade or a mine explode, “felt nothing forever.” But if a deadly number wasn’t picked from the big glass jar, he’d live twice. His parents wanted him to settle down, a wife, kids, … Continue reading →