I have stolen this prayer from my friend Giancarlo Ditrapano.
We can bump / Gucci and Sosa and Future while we sip lean with Sprite, / and talk Drill like Foucault talks about nutjobs, and talk / dying like Chiraq rappers. Like we’ve been there. We / haven’t.
I went to the Antiques Roadshow with my mother’s green marble frog in the inside pocket of the jacket of the black suit I wore to her funeral that morning. I had taken the frog from her house. I wanted to know what it was worth.
I fell in love with a woman who had a face like she meditated.
Mary Miller gets inside heads. I mean this in a non-creepy, invasive way, of course. It's a gift—some writers do wordsmash, some writers do atmospherics, and some writers—like Mary—do
In the woods beyond the property line, Henry and I find what decades ago used to be a farmer’s burn pile. Under years’ worth of leaf litter and yesterday’s snowfall there are remains, hard things fire could not destroy: twisted and rusted metal and scores of glittering glass bottles.
flipping out total blond and brunette loser pal road trip butt munch style and going 80s rampage at their sperm.
On August 23, 2013 I checked into an inpatient treatment center in middle-of-nowhere Ohio to get off heroin and other drugs. Besides detoxing me safely, teaching me things about drug addiction and
This one's massive. We're just going to get right into it.
Kyle, our friend, is the author of the new collection, Praying Drunk.
—Ed.
The title page says that this is a book of
My girlfriend moved out. She gave me back the lease the next day. “I’m not sorry,” she said, but she agreed to stay for afternoon coffee. We sat by the window. The coffeepot gurgled.
“I want a
*Has guilt ever almost eaten you alive? If so, how'd you - Like, how'd recuperate? Guilt is such a tricky emotion, don't you think? The sincerity behind true guilt is deafening.
Yes. I have
It’s been a big month for Mary Miller. Even prior to today’s release of her debut novel, The Last Days of California, excerpts and starred reviews found their way into the pages of Elle and O!
Every summer my father and I would make the drive to the ghost town of Lundy near the Nevada border to fish the lake there. We’d wake early and get doughnuts at 7-11 and drive and every five
One
Can’t write now would be too sad to read.
My celeb crushes get married or domestic.
I’m like a pair of dollar store sunglasses
look good but the fuckers snap!
If anyone, anywhere
It was a difficult job for the man who painted night. First off, he always stained his clothes. An occupational hazard, and Frank supposed he could wear an apron, but when he arched his back,
Benjamin Percy is the author most recently of the novel Red Moon (out this month in paperback), as well as another novel, The Wilding, and two books of stories, Refresh, Refresh and The Language of
Read part one of Joe's adventures through soup nazi'ing here.
—TURKEY CHILI (The Other Side of Darkness)—
Done got et.
During the taping of the infamous last episode of Seinfeld,
I had no business in a haberdashery store that expensive as a seventeen-year-old high school student most recently employed as a dishwasher; even less so as a recently self-declared man, an until-three-weeks-ago woman, lurking timidly, covetously, in the racks of ties.
