~
I'm awoken in the night again by Marja's rooster, Konstantin. He's like an ersatz husband for Marja. She raised him, and she pampered and spoiled him even as a chick; now he's full-grown and good for nothing. Struts around the yard imperiously and leers at me. His internal clock is messed up, always has been, though I don't think it has anything to do with the radiation. You can't blame the radiation for every stupid thing in the world.
--From Baba Dunja's Last Love, a novel by Alina Bronsky, translated from the German by Tim Mohr (Europa Editions, 2016). Originally published as Baba Dunjas letzte Liebe (Kiepenheuer & Witsch: Köln, Germany, 2015).
My father came home from the war to a household of girls and women. There was me, my mother, and my sister Carol, born while he was away. This was 1967, which was early to be coming back from Vietnam. More people were going there than returning, as is the case in any war. And the great acceleration, the downhill plunge, was just beginning. You have to remember none of us knew how anything would turn out.
--From Who Do You Love, a collection of short stories by Jean Thompson (Harcourt Brace & Company, 1999). It was published in paperback in 2000 by Simon & Schuster. This excerpt is from "The Amish," a short story which was first published in American Short Fiction.
I was looking at a poster for Midnight Alarm when the first
minivan blew up. Ten minutes after the second explosion
we heard the sirens, and I knew they didn't sound
the same as in the Garden in 1950, alerting firefighters
laid out on cots as if asleep to rise and dowse a scaffolding
structure painted like a tenement or brownstone.
--From "Fire in the Streets," a poem by Gavin Adair, Mid-American Review, Volume 27, Number 1 (Fall 2006), p. 125.
. . . Love's insects land on your arm
& draw a little blood. Instinctively, you squash them with your palm.
Amazing the seasonal shifts we permit ourselves: It seemed lucky
when our apartment burned. My father circumvented the superintendent
& illegally installed a new invention: the air conditioner, overloading vintage wiring.
Next scene: a thousand people in exile, clutching (what would be the one
possession you'd snatch in a panic?), & we all watched, hypnotized by flames,
like a scene from a '50s Godzilla movie, the lives of families transformed by my father's
desire for a comfortable summer. . . .
--From "Unitarian Birds," a poem by Bruce Cohen, Mid-American Review, Volume 28 (Fall 2007), pp. 60-61.
The first time our father brought Andrea to the Dutch House, Sandy, our housekeeper, came to my sister's room and told us to come downstairs. "Your father has a friend he wants you to meet," she said.
--From The Dutch House, a novel by Ann Patchett (HarperCollins, 2019).
Friday, November 29, 2019
Wednesday, October 16, 2019
The Fall 2019 issue of the Apple Valley Review
~
The Fall 2019 issue of the Apple Valley Review features short fiction by Tim Fitts, Richard Ward, Mary Grimm, and Casey Forest; a prose poem by Lisa Zimmerman; poetry by Richard Brostoff, Amy Schmitz, Barbara Daniels, Katherine Fallon, Lisa Zimmerman, Renee Emerson, Alfonsina Storni (translated from the Spanish by Thomas Feeny), Gary Duehr, Richard Spilman, and Joseph Chaney; and a cover painting by Dutch artist Cornelis Vreedenburgh.
The Fall 2019 issue of the Apple Valley Review features short fiction by Tim Fitts, Richard Ward, Mary Grimm, and Casey Forest; a prose poem by Lisa Zimmerman; poetry by Richard Brostoff, Amy Schmitz, Barbara Daniels, Katherine Fallon, Lisa Zimmerman, Renee Emerson, Alfonsina Storni (translated from the Spanish by Thomas Feeny), Gary Duehr, Richard Spilman, and Joseph Chaney; and a cover painting by Dutch artist Cornelis Vreedenburgh.
The Apple Valley Review is a semiannual online literary journal. The current issue, previous issues, subscription information, and complete submission guidelines are available at www.applevalleyreview.com.
Wednesday, September 18, 2019
Novels by Roy Jacobsen and Hye-young Pyun, stories by Dorthe Nors, and a poem by Marjorie Lotfi Gill
~
In the wake of the two disasters there followed yet another, this time connected with a widow's pension; you see, my father managed to get hitched again before he fell to his death, and to have another child, a girl, whose name we did not even know, so that now there was another widow somewhere out there, receiving the money that Mother and I should have had, and squandering it on the pools and taxis and perms.
--From Child Wonder, a novel by Roy Jacobsen, translated from the Norwegian by Don Bartlett with Don Shaw (Maclehose Press/Quercus: London, Great Britain, 2011). Originally published in Norwegian as Vidunderbarn (Prodigy) (Cappelen Damm: Oslo, Norway, 2009).
Ask me for the measure of rose water
in baklava, how to butter each layer of filo
away from the corner so it holds itself apart
under heat, or the exact crush of pistachio,
fine as rubble, not yet dust.
--From "The Wrong Person to Ask," a poem by Marjorie Lotfi Gill, Rattle (May 15, 2018).
After a while, the nurse came back. She unplugged a number of cords that connected Oghi to the machines, then double-checked the bed and slowly wheeled him out into the hallway.
Oghi lay there and watched as the hospital ceiling and fluorescent lights rushed past. He had a feeling he would be in that bed for a while. Not just a few hours but for days to come. All this talk about the importance of willpower must have meant that, unless he wanted it badly enough, he would have a tough time getting better. It meant there was absolutely no chance his body would mend on its own, that even repeated treatment would not guarantee recovery. The doctor's and nurse's reactions told Oghi that he'd taken a long time to wake up. He'd probably received all sorts of medical care already. The cables, the respirator, the tubes snaking in and out of him told him that his had not been an easy fight.
--From The Hole, a novel by Hye-young Pyun, translated from the Korean by Sora Kim-Russell (Arcade Publishing, 2017). Originally published in Korean as Hol (Moonji Publishing: Seoul, South Korea, 2016).
The Bangs work a lot and never shop for groceries themselves. Everything in the refrigerator is ordered online. Every Sunday evening they place their order. Every Monday a box is left outside the door with all their food. One of these Mondays the box contains a tomato weighing more than four pounds, which the Bangs do not believe they ordered. The first thing is that they cannot possibly eat a tomato that big. The other thing is that they are paying by the ounce. It's too expensive, says Mrs. Bang, so Mr. Bang calls the online grocery store to complain. At seven that evening, while I am busy in the guest bathroom, the doorbell rings.
--From "The Big Tomato," a short story by Dorthe Nors, from her collection Karate Chop, translated from the Danish by Martin Aitken (Graywolf Press, 2014), pp. 23-28.
For smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee with the hairstylist I get my hair done for half price. Once in a while, a fat lady who lives in our building walks by on the street outside. She has permission to keep a dog in her apartment, because her dog can't bark.
--From "Hair Salon," a short story by Dorthe Nors, from her collection Karate Chop, translated from the Danish by Martin Aitken (Graywolf Press, 2014), pp. 51-54. "Hair Salon" was first published in Gulf Coast, Issue 24.1 (Winter/Spring 2012).
In the wake of the two disasters there followed yet another, this time connected with a widow's pension; you see, my father managed to get hitched again before he fell to his death, and to have another child, a girl, whose name we did not even know, so that now there was another widow somewhere out there, receiving the money that Mother and I should have had, and squandering it on the pools and taxis and perms.
--From Child Wonder, a novel by Roy Jacobsen, translated from the Norwegian by Don Bartlett with Don Shaw (Maclehose Press/Quercus: London, Great Britain, 2011). Originally published in Norwegian as Vidunderbarn (Prodigy) (Cappelen Damm: Oslo, Norway, 2009).
Ask me for the measure of rose water
in baklava, how to butter each layer of filo
away from the corner so it holds itself apart
under heat, or the exact crush of pistachio,
fine as rubble, not yet dust.
--From "The Wrong Person to Ask," a poem by Marjorie Lotfi Gill, Rattle (May 15, 2018).
After a while, the nurse came back. She unplugged a number of cords that connected Oghi to the machines, then double-checked the bed and slowly wheeled him out into the hallway.
Oghi lay there and watched as the hospital ceiling and fluorescent lights rushed past. He had a feeling he would be in that bed for a while. Not just a few hours but for days to come. All this talk about the importance of willpower must have meant that, unless he wanted it badly enough, he would have a tough time getting better. It meant there was absolutely no chance his body would mend on its own, that even repeated treatment would not guarantee recovery. The doctor's and nurse's reactions told Oghi that he'd taken a long time to wake up. He'd probably received all sorts of medical care already. The cables, the respirator, the tubes snaking in and out of him told him that his had not been an easy fight.
--From The Hole, a novel by Hye-young Pyun, translated from the Korean by Sora Kim-Russell (Arcade Publishing, 2017). Originally published in Korean as Hol (Moonji Publishing: Seoul, South Korea, 2016).
The Bangs work a lot and never shop for groceries themselves. Everything in the refrigerator is ordered online. Every Sunday evening they place their order. Every Monday a box is left outside the door with all their food. One of these Mondays the box contains a tomato weighing more than four pounds, which the Bangs do not believe they ordered. The first thing is that they cannot possibly eat a tomato that big. The other thing is that they are paying by the ounce. It's too expensive, says Mrs. Bang, so Mr. Bang calls the online grocery store to complain. At seven that evening, while I am busy in the guest bathroom, the doorbell rings.
--From "The Big Tomato," a short story by Dorthe Nors, from her collection Karate Chop, translated from the Danish by Martin Aitken (Graywolf Press, 2014), pp. 23-28.
For smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee with the hairstylist I get my hair done for half price. Once in a while, a fat lady who lives in our building walks by on the street outside. She has permission to keep a dog in her apartment, because her dog can't bark.
--From "Hair Salon," a short story by Dorthe Nors, from her collection Karate Chop, translated from the Danish by Martin Aitken (Graywolf Press, 2014), pp. 51-54. "Hair Salon" was first published in Gulf Coast, Issue 24.1 (Winter/Spring 2012).
Saturday, August 10, 2019
Short stories by Susan Perabo and poems by Jeanne-Marie Osterman and Catherine Barnett
~
Katy's mother was a real piece of work. She lived like a hermit in a crappy little apartment in Newark, listening to talk radio and working crossword puzzles and--from what I could tell--just waiting to keel over dead. . . . She only spoke when asked a direct question, and her answers were always polite and indifferent and short, like she was being interviewed for a job she didn't really want; she looked right through Katy like a pane of glass.
--From "Counting the Ways," a short story by Susan Perabo. It was published in her collection Who I Was Supposed to Be (Simon & Schuster, 1999), pp. 35-51.
He awoke Christmas morning to find a tall, frowning doctor standing over him. Three of his ribs were cracked, and his nose was broken. His cheeks ached and his ears tingled. He lifted his arm and read the plastic band that circled his wrist. John Doe, it read.
--From "Reconstruction," a short story by Susan Perabo. It was published in her collection Who I Was Supposed to Be (Simon & Schuster, 1999), pp. 83-102.
I was twelve the summer I watched four men beat up my father on a softball field at his company picnic.
--From "Who I Was Supposed to Be," a short story by Susan Perabo. It was first published in Black Warrior Review, 21.1 (Fall/Winter 1994), and later included in her collection Who I Was Supposed to Be (Simon & Schuster, 1999), pp. 103-117.
I walk to the cafeteria carrying my
clipboard with Medicaid application and notes
for Washington State Human Services
I'm mistaken for a social worker
by a man in a wheelchair whose wife
is dying down the hall.
--From "Any Fool Can," a poem by Jeanne-Marie Osterman, 45th Parallel, Issue 4.
A doctor suggested I spend four minutes a day asking questions about whatever matters most to me.
Four minutes, that's how long it takes to boil an egg, get from 96th to 42nd on the express train, initiate an irreversible apocalypse.
---
How do I get out of here? is the question my father asks most frequently. It takes him three of four seconds to say the seven syllables, there are frequent glitches in his speech but it's a perfect mantra.
What next? and Jackie? are his other inquiries.
Jackie what next Jackie what next Jackie--
If you count repetitions, they add up to at least four minutes.
--From Human Hours, a collection of poems by Catherine Barnett (Graywolf Press, 2018). This segment is from "Accursed Questions, i" (pp. 23-26). The poem that led me to this book, "Essay on 'An Essay Concerning Human Understanding,'" appeared in The New Yorker on March 19, 2018 (pp. 52-53). "Essay" is on pages 32-33 of Human Hours.
Katy's mother was a real piece of work. She lived like a hermit in a crappy little apartment in Newark, listening to talk radio and working crossword puzzles and--from what I could tell--just waiting to keel over dead. . . . She only spoke when asked a direct question, and her answers were always polite and indifferent and short, like she was being interviewed for a job she didn't really want; she looked right through Katy like a pane of glass.
--From "Counting the Ways," a short story by Susan Perabo. It was published in her collection Who I Was Supposed to Be (Simon & Schuster, 1999), pp. 35-51.
He awoke Christmas morning to find a tall, frowning doctor standing over him. Three of his ribs were cracked, and his nose was broken. His cheeks ached and his ears tingled. He lifted his arm and read the plastic band that circled his wrist. John Doe, it read.
--From "Reconstruction," a short story by Susan Perabo. It was published in her collection Who I Was Supposed to Be (Simon & Schuster, 1999), pp. 83-102.
I was twelve the summer I watched four men beat up my father on a softball field at his company picnic.
--From "Who I Was Supposed to Be," a short story by Susan Perabo. It was first published in Black Warrior Review, 21.1 (Fall/Winter 1994), and later included in her collection Who I Was Supposed to Be (Simon & Schuster, 1999), pp. 103-117.
I walk to the cafeteria carrying my
clipboard with Medicaid application and notes
for Washington State Human Services
I'm mistaken for a social worker
by a man in a wheelchair whose wife
is dying down the hall.
--From "Any Fool Can," a poem by Jeanne-Marie Osterman, 45th Parallel, Issue 4.
A doctor suggested I spend four minutes a day asking questions about whatever matters most to me.
Four minutes, that's how long it takes to boil an egg, get from 96th to 42nd on the express train, initiate an irreversible apocalypse.
---
How do I get out of here? is the question my father asks most frequently. It takes him three of four seconds to say the seven syllables, there are frequent glitches in his speech but it's a perfect mantra.
What next? and Jackie? are his other inquiries.
Jackie what next Jackie what next Jackie--
If you count repetitions, they add up to at least four minutes.
--From Human Hours, a collection of poems by Catherine Barnett (Graywolf Press, 2018). This segment is from "Accursed Questions, i" (pp. 23-26). The poem that led me to this book, "Essay on 'An Essay Concerning Human Understanding,'" appeared in The New Yorker on March 19, 2018 (pp. 52-53). "Essay" is on pages 32-33 of Human Hours.
Wednesday, July 31, 2019
Fiction by Dorthe Nors, Etgar Keret, and Lydia Davis
~
Sonja is sitting in a car, and she's brought her dictionary along. It's heavy, and sits in the bag on the backseat. She's halfway through her translation of Gösta Svensson's latest crime novel, and the quality was already dipping with the previous one. Now's the time I can afford it, she thought, and so she looked for driving schools online and signed up with Folke in Frederiksburg. The theory classroom was small and blue and reeked of stale smoke and locker rooms, but the theory itself went well. Besides Folke, there was only one other person Sonja's age in the class, and he was there because of drunk driving, so he kept to himself. Sonja usually sat there and stuck out among all the kids, and for the first aid unit the instructor used her as a model. He pointed to the spot on her throat where they were supposed to imagine her breathing had gotten blocked. He did the Heimlich on her, his fingers up in her face, inside her collar, up and down her arms. At one point he put her into a stranglehold, but that wasn't the worst of it. The worst was when they had to do the exercises themselves. It was humiliating to be placed in the recovery position by a boy of eighteen.
--From Mirror, Shoulder, Signal, a novel by Dorthe Nors, translated from the Danish by Misha Hoekstra (Graywolf Press, 2018). Originally published as Spejl, skulder, blink (Gyldendal: Copenhagen, Denmark, 2016). First published in English by Pushkin Press, London.
"What did you buy it for?"
"Because I need it," she said. "A lot of things around here need gluing."
"Nothing around here needs gluing," I said. "I wish I understood why you buy all this stuff."
"For the same reason I married you," she murmured. "To help pass the time."
I didn't want to fight, so I kept quiet, and so did she.
--From "Crazy Glue," a very short story by Etgar Keret, LA Weekly (September 26, 2001). It was published in his collection The Girl on the Fridge (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008), pp. 5-7. "Crazy Glue" was translated from the Hebrew by Miriam Shlesinger.
In the summer of '76, they remodeled our house and added another bathroom. That was my mother's private bathroom, with green tiles, white curtains, and a kind of small drawing board she could put on her knees to do crossword puzzles on. The door of this new bathroom had no lock because it was my mother's and no one else was allowed to go in anyway. We were very happy that summer.
--From "The Summer of '76," a very short story by Etgar Keret, from his collection The Girl on the Fridge (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008), pp. 169-171. "The Summer of '76" was translated from the Hebrew by Sondra Silverston.
Nearly every morning, a certain woman in our community comes running out of her house with her face white and her overcoat flapping wildly. She cries out, “Emergency, emergency,” and one of us runs to her and holds her until her fears are calmed. We know she is making it up; nothing has really happened to her.
Sonja is sitting in a car, and she's brought her dictionary along. It's heavy, and sits in the bag on the backseat. She's halfway through her translation of Gösta Svensson's latest crime novel, and the quality was already dipping with the previous one. Now's the time I can afford it, she thought, and so she looked for driving schools online and signed up with Folke in Frederiksburg. The theory classroom was small and blue and reeked of stale smoke and locker rooms, but the theory itself went well. Besides Folke, there was only one other person Sonja's age in the class, and he was there because of drunk driving, so he kept to himself. Sonja usually sat there and stuck out among all the kids, and for the first aid unit the instructor used her as a model. He pointed to the spot on her throat where they were supposed to imagine her breathing had gotten blocked. He did the Heimlich on her, his fingers up in her face, inside her collar, up and down her arms. At one point he put her into a stranglehold, but that wasn't the worst of it. The worst was when they had to do the exercises themselves. It was humiliating to be placed in the recovery position by a boy of eighteen.
--From Mirror, Shoulder, Signal, a novel by Dorthe Nors, translated from the Danish by Misha Hoekstra (Graywolf Press, 2018). Originally published as Spejl, skulder, blink (Gyldendal: Copenhagen, Denmark, 2016). First published in English by Pushkin Press, London.
"What did you buy it for?"
"Because I need it," she said. "A lot of things around here need gluing."
"Nothing around here needs gluing," I said. "I wish I understood why you buy all this stuff."
"For the same reason I married you," she murmured. "To help pass the time."
I didn't want to fight, so I kept quiet, and so did she.
--From "Crazy Glue," a very short story by Etgar Keret, LA Weekly (September 26, 2001). It was published in his collection The Girl on the Fridge (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008), pp. 5-7. "Crazy Glue" was translated from the Hebrew by Miriam Shlesinger.
In the summer of '76, they remodeled our house and added another bathroom. That was my mother's private bathroom, with green tiles, white curtains, and a kind of small drawing board she could put on her knees to do crossword puzzles on. The door of this new bathroom had no lock because it was my mother's and no one else was allowed to go in anyway. We were very happy that summer.
--From "The Summer of '76," a very short story by Etgar Keret, from his collection The Girl on the Fridge (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008), pp. 169-171. "The Summer of '76" was translated from the Hebrew by Sondra Silverston.
Nearly every morning, a certain woman in our community comes running out of her house with her face white and her overcoat flapping wildly. She cries out, “Emergency, emergency,” and one of us runs to her and holds her until her fears are calmed. We know she is making it up; nothing has really happened to her.
--From "Fear," one of five very short stories by Lydia Davis, Conjunctions, Issue 24 (Spring 1995).
Minna spends her days in the Royal Library.
Minna has to work without noise.
Minna's working on a paper sonata.
The paper sonata consists of tonal rows.
Minna writes soundless music.
Minna is a tad avant-garde.
...
It's morning.
Lars has left again.
Lars is always in a hurry to get out of bed.
The bed is a snug nest.
Minna's lying in it, but
Lars is on his bike and gone.
Lars bikes as hard as he can in the direction of City Hall Square.
Lars makes the pigeons rise.
Lars has deadlines.
--From Minna Needs Rehearsal Space, a novella by Dorthe Nors, from her book So Much for That Winter, translated from the Danish by Misha Hoekstra (Graywolf Press, 2016). Part of Minna Needs Rehearsal Space (Minna mangler et øvelokale) was published in English and Danish by Asymptote.
Minna spends her days in the Royal Library.
Minna has to work without noise.
Minna's working on a paper sonata.
The paper sonata consists of tonal rows.
Minna writes soundless music.
Minna is a tad avant-garde.
...
It's morning.
Lars has left again.
Lars is always in a hurry to get out of bed.
The bed is a snug nest.
Minna's lying in it, but
Lars is on his bike and gone.
Lars bikes as hard as he can in the direction of City Hall Square.
Lars makes the pigeons rise.
Lars has deadlines.
--From Minna Needs Rehearsal Space, a novella by Dorthe Nors, from her book So Much for That Winter, translated from the Danish by Misha Hoekstra (Graywolf Press, 2016). Part of Minna Needs Rehearsal Space (Minna mangler et øvelokale) was published in English and Danish by Asymptote.
Saturday, July 20, 2019
Fiction and poetry by Domenico Starnone, Sayaka Murata, Mary White, and more
~
One evening Betta called, crankier than usual, wanting to know if I felt up to minding her son while she and her husband took part in a mathematics conference in Cagliari. I'd been living in Milan for a couple of decades, and the thought of decamping to Naples, to the old house I'd inherited from my parents, and where my daughter had been living since prior to getting married, didn't thrill me. I was over seventy and, having been a widower for some time, had lost the habit of living with others. I only felt comfortable in my own bed and in my own bathroom. Furthermore, I'd undergone, a few weeks earlier, a small surgical procedure which, even in the clinic, seemed to have done more harm than good. Though the doctors poked their faces day and night into my room, to tell me that everything had gone fine, my hemoglobin was low, my ferritin was poor, and one afternoon, I saw small heads, plaster-white, stretching toward me from the opposite wall.
--From Trick, a novel by Domenico Starnone, translated from the Italian by Jhumpa Lahiri (Europa Editions, 2018). Originally published in Italian as Scherzetto (Einaudi: Torino, Italy, 2016).
The morning period is passing normally in the brightly lit box of the convenience store, I feel. Visible outside the windows, polished free of fingerprints, are the figures of people rushing by. It is the start of another day, the time when the world wakes up and the cogs of society begin to move. I am one of those cogs, going round and round. I have become a functioning part of the world, rotating in the time of day called morning.
--From Convenience Store Woman, a novel by Sayaka Murata, translated from the Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori (Grove Press, 2018). Originally published in Japanese as Konbini ningen (Tokyo, Japan: Bungeishunjū Ltd., 2016).
When my fiancé left for the war
Which is still going on
I prepared increasingly elaborate foods
--From "Expectation Management," a poem by Mary White, Communion Arts Journal (June 2019).
Like, he's definitely cheating. He's not even trying to hide it anymore. He's such a piece of shit. Take a left here. And the worst part is she's not going to say anything either. I mean, she's basically just waiting for him to leave her. It's honestly stressful just being in the same room as them.
--From Bottled, a graphic novel by Chris Gooch (Top Shelf Productions, 2017).
I didn't belong there. I wandered through the succession of rooms, with a glass of overly acidic champagne in my hand. I looked at the other guests. Their self-confidence, the way they held their heads. Their facial expressions. They formed familiar little clusters, burst out laughing, glanced over at rival groups, occasionally glanced at the canvases, gushed noisily, turned away, murmured a spicy anecdote or scathing commentary into the ear of an acolyte, demolishing the opus they had just praised in the blink of an eye.
--From Exposed, a novel by Jean-Philippe Blondel, translated from the French by Alison Anderson (New Vessel Press, 2019). Originally published in French as La mise à nu (Libella: Paris, France, 2018).
Living alone in his dead uncle's cottage, and with the burden lately of wandering thoughts in the night, Seamus Ferris had fallen hard for a Polish girl who worked at a café down in Carrick. He had himself almost convinced that the situation had the dimensions of a love affair, though in fact he'd exchanged no more than a few dozen words with her, whenever she named the price for his flat white and scone, and he shyly paid it, offering a line or two himself on the busyness of the town or the fineness of the weather.
--From "The Coast of Leitrim," a short story by Kevin Barry, The New Yorker (October 15, 2018), pp. 70-75.
One evening Betta called, crankier than usual, wanting to know if I felt up to minding her son while she and her husband took part in a mathematics conference in Cagliari. I'd been living in Milan for a couple of decades, and the thought of decamping to Naples, to the old house I'd inherited from my parents, and where my daughter had been living since prior to getting married, didn't thrill me. I was over seventy and, having been a widower for some time, had lost the habit of living with others. I only felt comfortable in my own bed and in my own bathroom. Furthermore, I'd undergone, a few weeks earlier, a small surgical procedure which, even in the clinic, seemed to have done more harm than good. Though the doctors poked their faces day and night into my room, to tell me that everything had gone fine, my hemoglobin was low, my ferritin was poor, and one afternoon, I saw small heads, plaster-white, stretching toward me from the opposite wall.
--From Trick, a novel by Domenico Starnone, translated from the Italian by Jhumpa Lahiri (Europa Editions, 2018). Originally published in Italian as Scherzetto (Einaudi: Torino, Italy, 2016).
The morning period is passing normally in the brightly lit box of the convenience store, I feel. Visible outside the windows, polished free of fingerprints, are the figures of people rushing by. It is the start of another day, the time when the world wakes up and the cogs of society begin to move. I am one of those cogs, going round and round. I have become a functioning part of the world, rotating in the time of day called morning.
--From Convenience Store Woman, a novel by Sayaka Murata, translated from the Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori (Grove Press, 2018). Originally published in Japanese as Konbini ningen (Tokyo, Japan: Bungeishunjū Ltd., 2016).
When my fiancé left for the war
Which is still going on
I prepared increasingly elaborate foods
--From "Expectation Management," a poem by Mary White, Communion Arts Journal (June 2019).
Like, he's definitely cheating. He's not even trying to hide it anymore. He's such a piece of shit. Take a left here. And the worst part is she's not going to say anything either. I mean, she's basically just waiting for him to leave her. It's honestly stressful just being in the same room as them.
--From Bottled, a graphic novel by Chris Gooch (Top Shelf Productions, 2017).
I didn't belong there. I wandered through the succession of rooms, with a glass of overly acidic champagne in my hand. I looked at the other guests. Their self-confidence, the way they held their heads. Their facial expressions. They formed familiar little clusters, burst out laughing, glanced over at rival groups, occasionally glanced at the canvases, gushed noisily, turned away, murmured a spicy anecdote or scathing commentary into the ear of an acolyte, demolishing the opus they had just praised in the blink of an eye.
--From Exposed, a novel by Jean-Philippe Blondel, translated from the French by Alison Anderson (New Vessel Press, 2019). Originally published in French as La mise à nu (Libella: Paris, France, 2018).
Living alone in his dead uncle's cottage, and with the burden lately of wandering thoughts in the night, Seamus Ferris had fallen hard for a Polish girl who worked at a café down in Carrick. He had himself almost convinced that the situation had the dimensions of a love affair, though in fact he'd exchanged no more than a few dozen words with her, whenever she named the price for his flat white and scone, and he shyly paid it, offering a line or two himself on the busyness of the town or the fineness of the weather.
--From "The Coast of Leitrim," a short story by Kevin Barry, The New Yorker (October 15, 2018), pp. 70-75.
Friday, June 21, 2019
Flash fiction by Ron Nyren and Francine Witte, and several poems about stories
~
The summer of no breeze, six men carried an enormous fan up the stairs of my grandmother's four-story townhouse and installed it in the roof.
--From "Vertical Travel," a story by Ron Nyren, 100 Word Story (April 24, 2019).
Six months gone, but it's still my sister's birthday, and so we buy a cake.
--From "Candle," a story by Francine Witte, Fourth & Sycamore (August 15, 2018).
Halfway through the sentence
she fell asleep. She had been telling
some sort of fable concerning
a young girl who wakens one morning
as a bird.
--From "An Endless Story," a poem by Louise Glück, The Threepenny Review (Summer 2018).
You chase me through a cornfield
and we arrive in a clearing. All
that we know and do not know
shimmers between us, an invisible
door with no way to open or close.
--From "Bringing in the Sheaves," a poem by Donna Vorreyer, from her poetry collection Every Love Story Is an Apocalypse Story (Sundress Publications, 2016), p. 15. A different version of this poem was first published in the Apple Valley Review (Fall 2012) and later reprinted in the 2014 edition of New Poetry from the Midwest (New American Press).
dark, the better for sleeping, brown like my eyes,
you said, (may we all find that one person who will
compare our eyes to Ralph Lauren paint colors
instead of noticing the chipped polish on our left
foot) but my eyes aren't brown at all, . . .
--From "We are painting the bedroom," a poem by Donna Vorreyer, from her poetry collection Every Love Story Is an Apocalypse Story (Sundress Publications, 2016), p. 64.
He's a happy baby. How old is he?
I ask the woman who is reading a magazine
and seems to have forgotten
the baby at my feet. She looks up and I watch
her mind chew through my question.
Seven months maybe. Or eight, she says
then adds, He isn't my baby.
--From "Baby Facing the Wrong Way in the County Jail," a poem by Nancy Miller Gomez, from her chapbook of poetry and short essays, Punishment (Rattle, 2018), p. 22.
The summer of no breeze, six men carried an enormous fan up the stairs of my grandmother's four-story townhouse and installed it in the roof.
--From "Vertical Travel," a story by Ron Nyren, 100 Word Story (April 24, 2019).
Six months gone, but it's still my sister's birthday, and so we buy a cake.
--From "Candle," a story by Francine Witte, Fourth & Sycamore (August 15, 2018).
Halfway through the sentence
she fell asleep. She had been telling
some sort of fable concerning
a young girl who wakens one morning
as a bird.
--From "An Endless Story," a poem by Louise Glück, The Threepenny Review (Summer 2018).
You chase me through a cornfield
and we arrive in a clearing. All
that we know and do not know
shimmers between us, an invisible
door with no way to open or close.
--From "Bringing in the Sheaves," a poem by Donna Vorreyer, from her poetry collection Every Love Story Is an Apocalypse Story (Sundress Publications, 2016), p. 15. A different version of this poem was first published in the Apple Valley Review (Fall 2012) and later reprinted in the 2014 edition of New Poetry from the Midwest (New American Press).
dark, the better for sleeping, brown like my eyes,
you said, (may we all find that one person who will
compare our eyes to Ralph Lauren paint colors
instead of noticing the chipped polish on our left
foot) but my eyes aren't brown at all, . . .
--From "We are painting the bedroom," a poem by Donna Vorreyer, from her poetry collection Every Love Story Is an Apocalypse Story (Sundress Publications, 2016), p. 64.
He's a happy baby. How old is he?
I ask the woman who is reading a magazine
and seems to have forgotten
the baby at my feet. She looks up and I watch
her mind chew through my question.
Seven months maybe. Or eight, she says
then adds, He isn't my baby.
--From "Baby Facing the Wrong Way in the County Jail," a poem by Nancy Miller Gomez, from her chapbook of poetry and short essays, Punishment (Rattle, 2018), p. 22.
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