To get to the point: last night an iceberg slid out of my mind and into the room, sheathing first the windows and then the walls with frost.
“The Pacific Ocean,” he was telling their children through the rearview mirror, “is greater than the Atlantic. Many creatures are living there.”
Your hands swiped gently up at the sky as you named the constellations, each syllable a puff of white smoke into the cold. I could already see the faces our children would have.
The husband did not stop until he reached the ocean. Did not turn to wave at the woman he would widow.
Frank pays John to meet him at a hotel when Frank is in town so John can tie him up and leave him alone like that for eight to ten hours.
No one knew they’d have to cut off their tongues to keep those little machines of fire going.
Catherine O’Flynn talks with Rob Sharp about the connection between humor and tragedy, the places we look for happiness, and why she set her novel in a British shopping mall.
I crawled out of the bed wearing my PJ top and these little Wonder Woman Underoos.
You have to get down on your knees and sniff too. Do it right and they understand you are one of them.
We were Boudreaux and Rothschild, Miller and Stackowski, O’Toole and Greene. We were Dani, Alyx, Rickie, Carlita, Jaz, Sam. We were butch. We were femme. We were bois. We were a tribe.
When the previous summer’s blackout revealed that Barrett kept his family on an electric well pump rather than pay the town for water, Patrick had eased his mother’s shame by announcing that nothing pleased him better than a bath in the pond.
No need for physical pain. Abandonment, helplessness, let a man feel these, and it’s more than enough.
A map showed a tiny airplane, a jagged line trailing it, seemingly hovering over a dot named “Teheran.”
The wolves patrol back and forth and back and forth along the forest periphery and terrify the village children but not the parents—the parents are too busy with their politics and knickknacks to notice much about the wolves.
It’s rude to stare, but worth it.
The acclaimed novelist & art critic on dismantling notions of gendered writing, the pleasures of translated texts, and “the clear divide between art and politics” in contemporary American fiction.
Without a doubt, my friend has told you the tale about my parents, and about the various things that I experienced when I visited the Forest of Irunmale.
They were full of stories, and right from the beginning they wanted to tell them all, and when they did they would look at him as if to encourage him to learn them by heart
In a pile, like sea anemones, the boys’ penises were dusted with sand and, in the starlight, bluish.
She said this was for my own good—if I was kept in the dark, I would never be afraid of it.
Passing keys, leaving notes.
We all waited, I think. I don’t believe anyone rose immediately. And this was because the dead man was capable of anything. If he had fallen, who knew what he might do next?
What I’m about to tell you Pastor John doesn’t know.
He leaned back into his driver’s seat, closed his eyes, and waited to feel something for the dead man.
The man takes a piece of paper, he writes: S. Thala. S. Thala. S. Thala.
“Your father lets you dress like this?” Dinara said.
She’d forever be checking ethnicity boxes, emphasizing her parents’ work: farm laborer, housekeeping. Trying to prove that she was smart enough, committed enough, pleasant enough to be granted a trial period in their world.
My mother’s mother used to say that it took four generations to get the black out.
Ma Bulpit said, “You’ll find it hard till you know the ropes. Those Lockharts… Australians mean well.”
Not a word was uttered by an unknown man as he embraced an unknown twenty-year-old woman from behind on Boppstrasse.
Europe, the thought of Europe swelled over the horizon, like a giant dirigible, strung with lights in a dream of suspended power, but filled, in the dream, with a gas about to burst into flame.
My uncle never did a bad thing to anybody, but one day while he was on his front porch eating an ice cream cone, two men came upon him, pushed him inside, tied his hands and feet, robbed his house, and shot him in the head
The author of The Love Song of Jonny Valentine talks to Matthew McAlister about the publishing industry, narrative forms, and the nature of child stardom in the digital age.
Georges Simenon might be the best French-language novelist you’ve never heard of.
The MacArthur “Genius” on willful delusions, the ego’s limit, and the stories we tell to make sense of experience.
Soon it was all they could do to keep these children from singeing the draperies or shattering the glass windowpanes with a single touch.
The anthology includes Guernica contributors in all three categories—poetry, fiction, and non-fiction.
In Malibu, there lived a beautiful old woman without a nervous system.
In the face of its stare, I stared back, and the bear slavered in response, shook its thick fur as welcome or warning. . .
“These infidels cannot insult us like this. If you have the courage, come and face us out in the open. You cannot tie down a speechless animal and think you have beaten us…”
They stride through the woods and shout. They practice propping guns on their shoulders and breaking them in half so the empty shells tumble to the ground.
Eventually, I married a man more than twice my size. He terrified me. Making love felt like getting run over
According to Cornish, the pool, an infinity pool, would be able to recreate the event of Africa sinking into the sea.
How beautiful our daughter is in her white Tethering dress, dancing with her younger cousins across the decorated length of our yard
Padgett Powell’s Edisto, which takes place within sight of a beach, isn’t a difficult read—it’s propulsive and written with a light hand—but it’s also rife with all those harder topics that make the book worthwhile.
The sergeant dealt him a series of rapid-fire slashes across the face with his whip, and then dragged him to the edge of the flooded pit.
“We’re not firefighters,” Francis said.
The skinny man laughed. “Did you hear that guys? They say they’re not firefighters,” he called to the other five men who hadn’t gotten up to greet us but were still sitting down, smoking and conversing. “Slater, you a firefighter?”
The man who apparently went by Slater smiled. “Hell no.”