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I always cared about the explosions, but mostly I liked the whistlers, singers, and shriekers: the ones that screamed. Billy Acres and I bought a backpack-full from a fold-up table beneath the overpass. The old hippie had smuggled them up from South Carolina beneath a load of tie-dyed shirts. He said we had to buy [...]
From Issue 33, Lucy Corin
With David Wu next to me on a barstool, my mind turns to froth. I know him from town. His family makes up the entire Asian population in Daphne, Alabama.
Out on my bike near my apartment I passed a group of boys standing at a crosswalk.
Fuck you, ching chong chang, one of them shouted.
A special Flash Friday edition of From The Vault, where we feature favorites from issues past. The story first appeared as a “New Voice” Tin House #28. We live in Tasiilaq, the eastern tip of Greenland, where two jutting coasts curve in on each other like crab claws. We are ruddy and plump and strong. [...]
She was pretty enough. I mean, I probably wouldn’t have noticed if she wasn’t. Or maybe I would have. Because if it wasn’t busy I just stared outside of the window. The kitchen window, I mean, which looked out on to the counter. Not a window that looked out on the outside. Those were too far away from the kitchen to see out of.
That they were not working class was listed as a problem for them, something they construed as a problem in order to reach the troubles-quota that families from that region were meant to meet.
He keeps a small box in the closet. The bottoms of hanging shirts cover the box like a hiding child.
My manager is waist-deep in God, which is where I want to be.
From Issue 30, Etgar Keret
In the Apennines, he said. In the war, our patrol. A man of our unit took a shot to the gut.
He makes dinner while I sit at the two-top and watch. He lives in a house with three other people and a dog, a compost pile and various recycling bins. They hang their clothes on a line to dry, eat a lot of quinoa.
Once A Noted Writer of Avant-Garde Science Fiction, He Now Supports Himself Writing Restaurant Reviews For A Los Angeles Weekly, by Zak Smith
I have known chinamen. They are not all wheedling and gormless.
The wires had been fed into my father’s face. We stood around and watched him take it, and the white was gray really and I was older than I’d meant to be and there was no way now to stop.
It wasn’t easy to live in the woods, especially when we wanted the light on our heads. If only to know shoal and wave and dune.
One sticky afternoon, early in his marriage, Nat and his crew mates were gutting a tall-windowed lecture hall in the old chem building when, prying apart sections of lab table, he dislodged a long-hidden globule of mercury, which plopped into his bare hand.
My son kissed a pig at the petting zoo through the wire fence. I took him to the doctor because the pig’s nose was wet, and I’m a worrier.
“The telephone rang. I think it was already nightfall. The police were waiting for us outside my father’s building. They didn’t leave me alone with him.”
“There was a woman in the neighborhood known as the Lady Who Beats Her Kids.”
I speak of that home we made in the mountains before the big war, when things were done different.
God said, Let there be light.
And the young man standing before him wanted more than anything to ask, What’s light?
My mother and father told me that I had been born during a violent tornado and that they drove through the windy streets to the hospital
Well, so there’s life on the moon. Little spiderlike things, they say—a marvelous discovery.
From Issue 31, Chris Adrian