The one sage who escaped the Catastrophe is supposed to be still roaming the airport in various disguises, pretending to be a passport officer, barman or chiropodist, and distributing subversive pamphlets which denounce the allegedly lunatic usurpers of the Control Tower.
“The Control Tower,” by Arthur Koestler Read More »
Scott was a rock star. Not one of those rockers, touched by the gods, whose success is a just reward for essential fire. Scott wasn’t that, but he was close to it, second tier maybe, sliding maybe down the other side of that hill, but still reeking of sex, still pulling a good crowd, still living large, viable.
“Bling Bling,” by Marian Berges Read More »
I met Jean Taylor when I was five years old. She was the tallest woman I had ever seen, and she walked slowly, with her head up and her shoulders back, her hips moving like the hips of a slender cat. She wore black slacks and she had big feet which seemed to me very graceful, especially when she wore her straw sandals with the artificial cherries on them.
“The Woman Who Knew Judo,” by Mary Gaitskill Read More »
It’s now or never if you’re going to keep their pretty insides rare like the recipe calls for, and you’ve got the choice here between saving their souls or patching up a slice to the cleft of your left hand. Bisteccas alla fiorentina or Band-Aids, chef. You choose.
“You Must Give of Yourself,” by Barrett Bowlin Read More »
The people of the neighborhood who were eating their breakfast stopped passing bowls from father to son, from mother to daughter. All eyes followed Famakan, held by the lieutenant’s leash like a dog. Egg yolk ran into his eyes. He tried to wipe his face, but at that moment, the lieutenant pulled the cord taut, and Famakan collapsed into a mud puddle.
“The Lieutenant of Kouta,” by Massa Makan Diabaté Read More »
It is like a pen held to paper, this story I have to tell, the stain of ink spreading, the color deepening everywhere all at once. And I have no words, no means to make them tell.
“What I Want to Tell: A Sequence of Rooms,” by Michael Martone Read More »
He sits in a creased maroon leather recliner with his feet flat on the rug. The book is slender, nearly weightless in his hands. The door of his tiny study is closed. He reads by the light of a lamp which sits on a dark oak desk now cluttered with a few opened books, face down.
“Walter Kaplan Reads John Hersey’s Hiroshima, March 1947,” by Peter Orner Read More »
It never ceased to amaze him when grown women, women with husbands and children, acted like they were vestal virgins. His own sisters pulled that one on him all the time, or at least they had when they were still actually treating him like a human being, before he’d had to sell his house and business in Cape Cod and move in with friends.
“Larry in Love,” by Jennifer Moses Read More »
The first time my father tried to kill me I was seven. We had driven to the Miracle Mile strip mall at the edge of the city where Dad said he had to see a man about a horse. I sat in the backseat and when we parked Dad got out and told me he’d only be a minute. He rolled up the windows and locked the doors.
“Daddy,” by Steven Gillis Read More »
Rachel, oh Rachel! Mistress of my heart, irradiated queen of the desert, alien oasis, black-budget fever dream, ghost town of the future, sheepdog disco, heart of America. Shelter me in your double-wides, ll my ventricles with Alien Burgers, stun me with alcohol, swaddle me in the lights of your brilliant night sky.
“The Passion of Sheepdogs,” by John Haggerty Read More »
