My father's wife died. My mother said we should drive down to his place and see what might be in it for us.
--From Lucky Us, a novel by Amy Bloom (Random House, 2014).
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Saturday, February 14, 2015
In one, my brother's in the gutter,
literally, face up almost floating along
second street after a hard rain, the clouds
finally clearing, the clean stars directing
traffic, his indelibly dirty palm planted
around a forty, which, in this life,
is all he ever drank.
In another, my brother isn't wrecked. . . .
--From "Faith in Love and Quantum Physics," a poem by Brittney Scott, first published in Linebreak (February 3, 2015).
My roommates are gone for the weekend so I snort one of my mom's blood clotting pills and invite Lindsay over. When she gets there I take a steak knife and slice open my palm and show her how no blood comes out. It's a good trick, one my dead brother Alex taught me . . .
--From "How to Get Goth Girls Hot," a short story by John Jodzio, first published in Fiction Southeast (February 2, 2015).
That summer Wes rented a furnished house north of Eureka from a recovered alcoholic named Chef. Then he called to ask me to forget what I had going and to move up there and live with him. He said he was on the wagon. I knew about that wagon. But he wouldn't take no for an answer. . . .
--From "Chef's House," a short story by Raymond Carver, first published in The New Yorker (November 30, 1981) and reprinted in Cathedral (Knopf, 1983), pp. 27-33.
He tells me she's his wife. But she won't look at me. She looks at her nails instead. She and Holits won't sit down, either. He says they're interested in one of the furnished units.
"How many of you?" But I'm just saying what I always say. I know how many. I saw the two boys in the back seat. Two and two is four. . . .
--From "The Bridle," a short story by Raymond Carver, first published in The New Yorker (July 19, 1982) and reprinted in Cathedral (Knopf, 1983), pp. 187-208.
When my parents split up, my mom dated so many men
that it now takes two memories to keep them all, mine and
my sister's. In a recent phone conversation, I said to my sister,
remember the one who said his tan wasn't his tan but his Cherokee
blood? Remember how he used to take his place at the dinner table,
bare-chested? Why doesn't he wear a shirt, we asked. And mom said,
who cares, that's not what matters. She herself wasn't wearing much,
a nightgown that might have been lingerie. . . .
--From "Love Stories," a poem by Timothy Schirmer, first published in FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry, Issue 44 (Fall 2014).
I see a woman that is maybe a man. Just in case, I practice for poverty. Just in case, I walk nowhere very slowly. Once, on a bad day I went for a long walk looking for trouble. . . .
--From "I see a dog that is maybe a wolf." a poem by Timothy Schirmer, first published in FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry, Issue 44 (Fall 2014).