Every Friday afternoon at 12:15 p.m., Chanda retrieves the Yale key from under the reclining green-hatted gnome, lets herself in the window-paneled pine wood door, strips on the way upstairs (unlike at her place, there’s no significant other or sticky five-year-old to necessitate picking her clothes up) and gets into the Egyptian-cotton sheeted, king-sized bed with Kieran.
The stories in the volume are linked essentially by place (the Museum), set during the time of the author’s employment (with flashbacks) and they share some characters. But the Met is more than a place: it is a culture, a family, a shared history/collection – with all that that implies/entails of relationships.
One of the funnest parts of writing my novel about a fictive famed standup ic was the creation of a parallel pop culture that mirrored and coexisted with the pop culture we knew and loved from the decade of the aughts.
Chris draws back the curtain of the shower and uses a washcloth to scrub the condensation from the full-length mirror on the back of the door. They stand, naked, and stare at themself.
Wortman’s debut collection of short fiction, This. This. This. Is. Love. Love. Love. skillfully explores this intersection of intimacy and mental illness, each story examining the act of seeking and receiving love despite a disease that claims we are unworthy of it.
I was born the year before we landed on the moon and those missions had an undeniable impact on a boy growing up in Indiana. We had a National Geographic that memorated the event with iconic photos and it came with a square flexi disc phonograph record of the sounds of Apollo 11.
I came across a library behind a dilapidated two-story house one afternoon when I was walking to the pharmacy around the corner from my mother’s house. The library was red and square with gilded letters. I couldn’t remember it being there before, but it was possible that it was new or that I had missed it.
Brimming with maps of imaginary places and lost cities, and natural disasters in the form of volcanic eruptions and impact craters, Breazeale’s stories explore extinction in all its possible forms, from the disappearance of the dinosaurs and the course of human plagues to the death of a single beloved sister.
I recently started a new day job at a software pany. I’ve never worked for the government or for any pany that requires a security clearance, and I doubt that during the interview process, my new employer analyzed my Google search history.
Rub the coarse fur. Let his heat warm your hands. White his yellow coat with suds that split the sun. Smooth his fattened belly, hoping it’s not all cardboard and plastic bags, that le mouton, the ram, also ate mango skins and fish heads with all the other garbage in Yoff, where he roamed the beach.
Recipe for Tired People Seeing America by Claire Hopple (V) (GF)