My grandmother is high, reading science fiction in the kitchen while a choir of drunk relatives do Johnny Most Christmas carols.
In a sea of perplexing novels and short stories that seek to highlight the good in bad characters, Ottessa Moshfegh‘s work rises above it all with murky water dripping from its edges, forgoing the good altogether to reveal the worst in everyone. The Los Angeles-via-Boston writer prides herself on writing with a sense of unstable […]
In different ways, I lost my two best friends, but I gained something too. On that rainy, fall night, I glimpsed the way life could be, when everything breaks just right.
The opening band sounds like Dick Dale on downers. Dual vocalists split the front of the stage. The hipster, stage-left, plays rhythm, mic on distortion.
Her commitment had been total until, during one of four weekly after-class sessions, she lost concentration when her coach’s interest diverted visibly to a younger girl stretching on a nearby mat.
That night I decided my hunch had been right all summer that nothing else in my life had ever mattered. I was encapsulated in darkness.
He was just getting seriously into weight training and his body was bulging in unexpected places we’d discover together.
YOUR FIRST MESSAGE is from some kid who only just gained the right to drink in bars this past November, and what he writes to you is I like older women.
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YOU WERE BORN the day the IRA kidnapped Shergar. The radio reported it, and the t.v. did, too. The midwife suspected that the Russians had taken him.