Boxes in the trunk of the Toyota Corolla Azure her mother sold when they got to the city. Their neighbor played “Purple Rain” every morning. Blue stripes on the city bus. Blue Man Group in Union Square. Public school, plastic chairs. First test. “Sorry kid,” when Natasha’s teacher handed her a blue pen.
It is summer and all my friends are dying.
There are people who talk about the Internet or reading PDFs, but the thing is, those people are all wrong. That’s the great truth of it; no matter what happens with smartphones, or streaming TV, or people ordering books off of Amazon, I think the written word is here to stay. People will always like to read physical books. For anyone who is thinking about a career in writing, there will always be demand for that and there will always be opportunities for that.
Remember, dying ain’t pretty, and you can’t let the kiss of death linger too long. Pretend that you love him. Pretend that you are Milton’s little girl. Pretend that the pain is too much to bear. Do not laugh at how botched your aunt looks. Instead, kneel and pray—pretend to if you cannot.
Deep in the strange forest—half dead and sprinkled with the bones of long extinct creatures—was an even stranger nest. It was large and rotting, parts of it collapsed and covered in foliage. But it was The Mouse’s favorite place in the entire forest. The large nest was full of the prettiest rocks The Mouse had ever seen. These rocks were flat and could be pulled open and they were full of leaves. The leaves, in turn, had colorful markings on them. The leaves were mesmerizing, fascinating, and oddly delicious. On occasion, the markings looked like things The Mouse had seen. Sometimes, even The Mouse themself would be in one of the rocks.
You motion for another martini and down it quickly. What number is that? Three? Five? Why hasn’t He noticed you yet? You’re drunk but not yet sloppy. You’ll leave before that happens. Catch a cab, stumble up the stairs to your fourth-floor walk up. You pick up your cell and your fingers move slowly but you put a note in your phone with the name of the bar you’re at—sober you will appreciate the breadcrumbs.
It lies in their souls. That Earthly promise of life beyond the flesh and ascent into the sky along an arch formed by rain. It is only the drowned—buried under the seafoam corpses of our ancestors—whose souls remain in the sea.
“Two please,” I say.
The vendor looks me over and waves his skinny arm towards the colorful ticket display behind the counter, lifting his chin in my direction. The gesture reminds me of my ex—Jairo’s father.
In the express checkout lane, the cashier asked her if she’d found everything she was looking for. She didn’t know how to answer, so she left the store without buying anything.
There are two kinds of people in the Persian community: Those that kiss you on the cheek twice, and those that you kiss you on the cheek three times.
Reality becomes myth, then that myth becomes legend. That’s the spectacle of Karen Russell’s “Orange World”.
Alexandra Shelley has over 30 years of editing experience. She worked as an independent editor with author Kathryn Stockett on The Help, and with Martha Hall Kelly on both Lilac Girls and Lost Roses.
parenthesized by a stream of repudiation
she sang, her voice now hoarse and raspy, sounding like a kitchen sink disposal
Julia Fierro plays many roles—in her works of fiction and life. She is the author of the novels The Gypsy Moth Summer (June 2017) and Cutting Teeth (2014) as well as the founder of The […]
reveling in the feel of standing at the beginning of something, before it swallows me whole
I have often found that literary events fall into several distinct categories: those that I look forward to attending, those in which I feel obligated to attend, those that offer an open bar, those that […]
The New School’s first Fiction Forum of the fall welcomed New York Times bestselling author Nathan Englander. The hall filled with students, faculty, writers, and community members. All were captivated by Mr. Englander, who is […]
