I didn’t go to the funeral. My grief was too obtuse, too childish to be experienced munally.
“It was my birthday when I found out that all the birds were electric,” the narrator proclaims in the first story of Sadie Hoagland’s collection, American Grief in Four Stages. This is indicative of the world Hoagland presents in these stories, one easily recognizable as our own, yet slightly bizarre — these strange details producing the exact feeling of being immersed in grief.
At some point in our lives, deep trauma affects us all. The Bobcat is a story about this universality, and how love, art and nature can stop us from pletely shutting down and sometimes even help us e back stronger.
Every Friday afternoon at 12:15 p.m., Chanda retrieves the Yale key from under the reclining green-hatted gnome, lets herself in the window-paneled pine wood door, strips on the way upstairs (unlike at her place, there’s no significant other or sticky five-year-old to necessitate picking her clothes up) and gets into the Egyptian-cotton sheeted, king-sized bed with Kieran.
The stories in the volume are linked essentially by place (the Museum), set during the time of the author’s employment (with flashbacks) and they share some characters. But the Met is more than a place: it is a culture, a family, a shared history/collection – with all that that implies/entails of relationships.
One of the funnest parts of writing my novel about a fictive famed standup ic was the creation of a parallel pop culture that mirrored and coexisted with the pop culture we knew and loved from the decade of the aughts.
Chris draws back the curtain of the shower and uses a washcloth to scrub the condensation from the full-length mirror on the back of the door. They stand, naked, and stare at themself.
Wortman’s debut collection of short fiction, This. This. This. Is. Love. Love. Love. skillfully explores this intersection of intimacy and mental illness, each story examining the act of seeking and receiving love despite a disease that claims we are unworthy of it.
I was born the year before we landed on the moon and those missions had an undeniable impact on a boy growing up in Indiana. We had a National Geographic that memorated the event with iconic photos and it came with a square flexi disc phonograph record of the sounds of Apollo 11.
I came across a library behind a dilapidated two-story house one afternoon when I was walking to the pharmacy around the corner from my mother’s house. The library was red and square with gilded letters. I couldn’t remember it being there before, but it was possible that it was new or that I had missed it.