I glare at the construction crews. I search for where they’ve hidden the dynamite. They don’t know that I’m in the warehouse. I keep myself hidden. I’d like to sneak in and light it off, watch the fireworks. I imagine Rowan watching, too, knowing that it’s me.
(fiction)
“Pynchon is like the lost minutes on the Nixon tapes,” Steele says. “The not being there just adds to the mystery. The fact he even came today ruins it. Like if the Red Sox won the World Series. The myth is dead. The real Pynchon would’ve never showed. I think it was a dumb move, actually.”
(fiction)
Ruth couldn’t quite forget that her husband, David, had slept with Diana before he slept…
“Free Solo Climbing”
“A Beautiful Fiasco”
(fiction)
In 2010 life changed in Bear’s Corner. Outsiders know the place as Komi. That was the year the bears came to eat us.
(fiction)
Religious, you say? What’s religious? And when there are so many shades, so many tones and semi-tones of religious, who really qualifies as merely religious and who, as a nut job?
(fiction)
I made no friends in Granada, which seemed natural enough to me. I read though. Oddly enough it was then I became fascinated by the American Civil War.
(fiction)
There’s never anyone there to scold me, to watch over me, no one to demand, hands on hips, “Where were you, young lady?”
(fiction)
I realized I’d made a big mistake. I hadn’t advanced with her as much as I thought I had.
(fiction)
Hell, he probably looked like Michael, himself, who had taken plenty of girls home from plenty of parties, too – horny, hopeful; no shame for him in that – but had backed off if they said no, and just said goodnight.
(fiction)
These days they want to text, mostly. It is more discreet. They text me from their couches, their kids’ soccer games, their beds next to their sleeping wives. I will fuck you so hard.
(fiction)
I would tell Renee all of it, the details held in my stomach, fluttering up my throat as my mother and I got in the car and started the familiar drive to Skateland Roller Rink.
(fiction)
We don’t get along because we’re always fighting for a spot near the air pump.
The first time Isabel saw Camila’s ghost, she was standing at her beside next to the IV drip. Her face was still eighteen and fresh.
“When it comes to Brown’s latest, the White (or even in some cases Grimy) City should be proud,” Laurie Levy writes of Rosellen Brown’s “The Lake on Fire.”
Finally Natalia Ginzburg’s “Family Lexicon” is English and couldn’t be more timely, Natalia Nebel writes.
Another Chicago Magazine 