And the earth died screaming
While I lay dreaming
--Tom Waits
He came from Wal-Mart. Some fellow was loitering by the automatic doors with a stink my wife described as rotten apples
It's August, and it smells like grass and cranberry fruit snacks. I pick my brother up from the post office where he works. When he gets in, he says, "Let me take off these shoes."
We drive and
Ryan Boudinot is a Hobart favorite -- heck, he edited our fourth issue. There are few contemporary writers we'd rather read. His work is funny, dark, and flat-out brilliant.
When I first read
At school, we were allowed to wear costumes but were not allowed to bring treats. So we'd made the most of it -- we wore our costumes, we overcrowded the hallways with streams of sleepy ghosts. And
We spread a blanket off to one side of the boat launch, under some trees. Island Lake, in Shelton, Washington, is surrounded by small private homes, and this is the only public access. Since it's
NOTE TO READERS: this interview with Victor LaValle went much longer than expected, and we couldn't bear to part with any of it. So, consider this a teaser for the full interview, which you can
The apartment smells of burnt toast when Marcia arrives home from work. Her husband, Gary, having toasted two loaves that afternoon, hovers over the linoleum kitchen counter cutting slices into
Rick Moody's not the kind of writer who needs one of these introductory paragraphs. Author of some of our most indelible recent literature, winner of big prize after big prize, National Book Award
I'm functional in the sense that I make it to evening confrontations. At the sushi bar, Gita keeps talking about some girl she works with: "I just think that she's just really into identity.
"You played sports?" he asks over dinner. They're having baked chicken and baked potatoes. Clean food is how she thinks of it, only a little butter on the potato and no salt. He's pouring ketchup
The hair monster checked out the ass of a handicapped woman. She was standing with her back turned when the hair monster noticed her panty line against her white tights and thought, hey hey hey. He
Roy Kesey's best stories manage to be hilarious and poignant, absurd and intelligent, amusing but still close to the heart. And like all great writers, Roy somehow makes this balancing act look
She was what his father, who had a Betty Grable calendar in the garage, used to call a bleached blonde, and she was kind of daffy-taffy in that old Hollywood way. Face all smooth and creamsicle
The earth is deep brown and peppered with crows. Sorry-looking cows nuzzle the frozen refuge. Two mongrel dogs, skinny, tentative, sniff at my backside. Submerged concrete -- cuboid and rectangular
Gerry let out a loud belch and tried unsuccessfully to focus on Albert.
"I've got to get her back. I miss her so much."
There were tears in Gerry's eyes and Albert felt his stomach clench,
Jeffrey Brown entered the comics world with three intimate autobiographical graphic novels about failed relationships. Then a comic about a superhero with a giant head. Then one about cats. And
She had death in her hands, in her heart, in the americ tang of her angry sweat: she was jealous of a piece of bread. It was a dark, trunk-thick loaf of Polish bread, and Agnes could think of
I.
Deirdre doesn't talk to Nicole anymore, but she thinks she does. Last winter, six months went by with neither one of them saying anything. Right around Memorial Day, Deirdre asked if she
1. Ionization
In a city where everything feels a bit belated, where the clever ones agonize over looming hindsight, our advertising company accelerated toward modernity, at last, on February
Kitty peeled dead flies off the screen. She squinted in the direction of the boatyard. "No boats today," she muttered to herself.
A late season heat wave had brought a constant haze that made
It is 1:38 pm the day after the event and the best way I can think of to describe the way I feel is: food hangover. I'm dressed in the loosest clothing I own with a throbbing, deep-seated headache
Very soon, a book named Famous Fathers will appear on bookshelves. It's by the astonishing Pia Ehrhardt.
This is very exciting.
I have been a fan of Ehrhardt's subdued, gorgeous fiction for
Leonard Crank is an ass. He's a beer-in-a-can-drinking, White-Owl-cigar-smoking, wife-beater-wearing, greasy-haired slug. He is also my next-door neighbor. As for me, well, I have always been the
"Rita, I know you've slept with one of your cousins," Mom told me this morning at brunch.
My stomach kicked. I stopped chewing but couldn't swallow.
"Here, drink some juice," she said and
He sits in his chair, absently running his fingers through his thinning white hair. She hunches on the sofa, quivering, holding a shredded tissue in one hand and rubbing warmth into her forearm
