Literary short stories by established and emerging writers.
In the Mississippi Delta the earth is water-line flat. The earth is no egg. Horizon so far off you have to imagine it's there to keep your heart steady.
For Koreans, technically, when someone a year older than you tells you to jump off a bridge, you're supposed to jump off the bridge. Little jewels of knowledge like that go a long way toward explaining why the country's spent half of its history occupied by foreigners.
Melting at Both Ends
She is still that young girl who stalled the red Volkswagen Beetle at the crossroads, learning to drive a stick shift. She is still that young woman who voted for Jimmy Carter.
Pronouncing the Apostrophe
My prayers at night consisted of pointing out to God that I was aware of at least ten specific, good things that had happened that day. Tonight it was easy and soon I was asleep.
Here are things Guy notices. She does things with her hair that he finds relaxing. Both hands wrapped around a ponytail that she never finishes. He can see her black bra strap through the fabric of her shirt, where it indents the flesh of her back. He notices the movement of her shoulder blades when she walks.
Which Leaves Me
"It's fair," my nephew says. "It's just not very kind."
I always imagine the friends she must have, four or five other ladies with teased hair, giggling together at the food court in the mall, bright lipstick prints on plastic straws, fingers touching casually, cozily, over a cardboard boat of French fries.
Marijuana, Lipton Tea, and Jazz
I had two wives before Sherry, and she had a husband before me, about whom I know little: his name was Gus, he played the drums, he died of a stroke.
These things take time, Victor had said. But the earth had been turned in April now it was June and no progress had been made. New shoots of grass were already growing in the overturned clods.
He was a Mongol by blood, and they are notoriously large. He did not move as though he liked this aspect of himself. He kept his arms secure by his sides. Whenever he extended them, he seemed conscious of their length, and was quick to return them to safer positions. When he sat, his back and legs folded like a forty-story crane.
Interview by Kevin Rabalais
As I've gotten older, I've run out of autobiographical material. But the thing I notice is that the further I move away from autobiography, the more autobiographical, on a certain level, my books become. There are preoccupations and concerns that I cannot get away from.