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John Benditt in conversation with Nancy Pearl - University Bookstore Wednesday, February 25th, 7:00pm
They talked about writing important things. Some wrote very popular things and could talk so as to make the very popular things they wrote seem important. They winnowed. They channeled. They allowed for marginalia. Brown water, vomitus, sloshes up running boards, foams into door cracks, saturates floor mats. Engine side of the F-150 sinks first. […]
I almost don’t go to the the reading of my grandfather’s will, but it’s important to my sister. The lawyer reads my name and adds, “Scrimshaw, one,” and with both hands passes me a carving of a caribou antler—not one from a large bull, but a simpler cow’s. Tracing my finger along the almost-ivory, I […]
Fifty drunk teenagers in a backyard. The girls pair off by height: tall with tall; short with short. The night is balmy, blameless. Jonah Tate, whose backyard it is, makes a ring with white masking tape. Becky Brady stands in her corner, gloves limp at her sides. A boy whispers something in her ear and […]
My doctor always asked how I would prepare it, the placenta. Powdered and encapsulated for my Yuki—two, three, four or more a day depending on my level of sadness and how much I believed the vitamins and hormones within the tissue would make me whole again. Pan fried and stuffed into dumplings for Toru. A […]
I was at the hibachi restaurant in the dream.
Elliott Holt teaches us our ABC’s.
The Bishop leaned toward the vanity, tweezers poised, and considered two uncomfortable truths.
The art teacher’s wife left him, and their two sons, for another woman two years ago.
It’s the future. It’s been the future for a while.
First we filled the holes, each only nine or so millimeters wide. The maintenance staff had tools on hand.
When people ask me something, I’ve a principle: always say yes.
He came back from the war with a little bit of money and the helmet of a man he had killed with a knife in a burnt-out house
We were the sons and daughters of busy working men and women who couldn’t afford crèches, of half-lost souls, of feckless unemployed folks who had some betting or drinking or TV-watching planned on our schoolless Wednesday afternoons.
All birds around here were dead, and we stared, slack-jawed, at their piled carcasses along the road.
But more of the chicks survived than you thought, and dozens upon dozens of them now scurry around the room, shitting everywhere.
Six candles on the chocolate cake, one for each of Sherman Moon’s years, and as Mrs. Moon carries the cake into the dining room, Mr. Moon says, “Don’t tell us your wish, son.”
It’s not that I didn’t try to help. When Annemarie flailed, sleeping, I was the one who always shook her until she sat up, sheet-tangled, still half-caught in her dream.
Two dung beetles leaned back on their hindquarters atop a napping tortoise . . .
Baby turtles are hatching in my house.
I hunt and kill and butcher with arrow and sword, hound and falcon, ear and arm. I sight and take aim.
In the spring, the dogs stopped barking. By then our windows were held open with tomato cans or washed-out jars of jelly
He mounts the shaking platform, lays the weight of his fingers on the delicate wings.
He told me to mute the Taxi TV.
It’s twenty degrees and my toddler Iona’s parka is so stiff she’s liable to fall, so I carry her up the steps onto the green metro bus. She squirms until I put her down, then stomps her boots and grins at her freedom while I pay the fare. She’s happy when she can get what […]
Mariela waited for the American boy in his bedroom. The bedroom had been Mariela’s once—hers and Hector’s—