Our train broke down in the frozen heart of the taiga. At first we were startled. We had grown accustomed to the relentless presence of the engine, the way that it throbbed beneath our toes and thrummed through our veins. When we tried to rise, we stumbled and then tried again. How strange it was …
Associate Editor Molly Reid: Chris Haven’s “The Griefbearer” is a fable for our time. The premise is enticing: someone to experience our loss for us. Who wouldn’t want to escape the pain of grief, to be able to hoist it onto another person? Who wouldn’t want to, as the collective narrator says, “live a …
Associate Editor Molly Reid: In Vanessa Cuti’s “Your Future,” she provokes the reader to fill in the white space around the narrator’s dinner with a prior acquaintance. Familiar in its outline, vivid in its detail—”[The toothpicks] were bent and wet, and the wood fanned at the edges where he had jammed them between his …
Issue 15.2 has arrived in our offices! We’ll be mailing it out to contributors this week, and subscribers will see a nice shrink-wrapped package in their mailboxes sometime soon too. In honor of its release, we’d like to share a special feature: an appreciation of the play included in the issue: The Strangers, by christopher …
If the mind is one of those Piranesi prisons, she said, full of darkly nested architectural redundancies—as we know the human brain is, with its neurons like ropes slung precariously from cell to cell, and interrupted spiral staircases going neither up nor down, and ruined stone lions hinting at some tapestried past when all this …
Begin with knowing the comma is a word and the word is always fuckin’. Forget the gerund, then torque the lazy u into an a, and let the vowel kneel into the roof of your mouth like a penitent against a church pew. Stretch the c into the k, graceful as Astaire in blackface. Now …
Rita came home from the war. The town was not as if she had never left. Some things had changed. The Taco Bell, for instance, was closed, but another had opened on the next street. The Church of the Passionate Blood, with its stained-glass Christ as slim and pale and sweet as a glowworm, had …
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