The Roma Khan Complex

I've written a new short story. It came out quite nice. It's about a woman and her dying parents and her boyfriend, whom she hates, and a lover whom she doesn't love. It's also about depression and New York City and corporations and real estate. Click here to read it or just head over to the prose section by clicking one of those fancy buttons at the top of the page. (Special thanks to Ben Moore for reading an earlier version and helping to get it into fighting shape.)

Here's a small piece just to wet your whistle:

Roma’s mother—hands clasped together, eyes closed—began to pray. She rocked back and forth rapidly from the waist up. "Inshallah, I shall be rescued from this madness by a merciful and just God."

“Abbu, who do you think is going to rescue us?” Roma said.

“I don’t know,” he said.

This was a good day, all things considered. Roma’s parents fought incessantly, usually accusing one another of conspiring with hospital staff to...exactly what, Roma could never quite understand. And as fate would have it, Myra and Arthur Khan’s quiet moments were never in sync, so one or both of them was always screaming. But at least today they were not throwing anything more lethal than rolled-up copies of People.

Small victories, Roma thought. Small victories.