Thursday, July 30, 2015

"Get It Back for Me," a short story by Elizabeth Tallent, and two short pieces by Nicole Rollender and Rachel Peters

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The mashed potatoes had dried in peaks, the roast beef was both gray and, depressed with a fork, bleeding.  Shining small peas each contained a glint of unthawed, original cold as brilliant and brief-lived as a snowflakes's.  How she managed this, he said, was beyond him.  Half the food cooked to death, half the food raw.  She knew he was coming home.  All she had to do, all she had to do was have dinner ready.  His answer to her: One night, one night he'd like to come home to some kind of order.  One night, one night of his life he'd like his wife to be happy to see him.  The other guys' wives were happy when they walked in the door.  She said, How did he know anyone else was so happy?  How did he know?  He wasn't walking in their doors, he was walking in this door, and all he could really talk about was this life, and he said they had to be happier than this, had to be.  
--From "Get It Back for Me," a short story by Elizabeth Tallent, first published in Lear's and reprinted in her story collection Honey (Vintage, 1993), pp. 101-117.

You wanted 
to be buried in the green dress

you always wore with pearls.  We'd sit outside your back
door, watching bats swing over the lake.
--From "Scattering," a poem by Nicole Rollender, Linebreak (April 21, 2015).

I hate writing.  Other people go to the gym after work, or see friends on the weekend, and they don't walk around not realizing they have pens in their hair and under their bra straps.  A friend actually told me once that sometimes he has nothing in his head.  Nothing at all.  Radio silence.  I can't imagine how wonderful that must feel.  Other people sleep at night.  Other people read a good book just for the story.  Other people go entire weeks without an e-mail that says you're not a good fit, not quite what they're looking for, the tone just isn't right.  But best of luck elsewhere.  Other people are allowed to keep their own secrets.  
--From "Why I Write: Rachel Peters," an essay by Rachel Peters for the "Why I Write" column, Fiction Southeast (June 26, 2015).

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