Showing results for Fiction
In December 2013, Brooklyn Nets Assistant Coach Lawrence Frank was "reassigned" by first... more
Across the street, I see a large, jolly-looking man with a white beard and white hair leaving the house of our friends, David and Shelby. The man is wearing camouflage – the jacket, hat and hip waders of a duck hunter.
At nearly two in the morning, in the room across the hall from where his wife slept, Geoff Devine was awake, gazing down at the above ground pool in the backyard. Though he couldn’t see it, he knew that within the giant wooden drum, the murky water reflected the light of the moon.
In jest you call for your horse, but there is no horse. It’s a bright lettuce-green morning, birds piping overhead. You are on foot, and follow the derelict tracks out of town past the Shell Station. You step off the road and onto a furry plain of high golden weeds and yellow dross. This is strange.
Lyle worked the night shift in a millwork factory, manning a machine nicknamed the Pincher. Everyone hated the Pincher. On the day shift they kept going through operators. Before Lyle, the longest anyone else had lasted on the Pincher was two years. At least that was how the story went. Lyle hated the Pincher too, but he’d learned to live with it. He’d been there nine years and would be there another nine if they let him. By then he’d have enough saved up for a nice house, one with stairs and a workbench and actual carpeting.
Two queens walk out of a bar and light a cigarette, me and Lucy Littlefist. Lucy says this. She says, “In a relationship,” she traces quotation marks in the air around the word, “one of you always loves the other more.” And she’s right. She secures her wig with another bobby pin, pulls at her sequined dress.
There was once a time when my aunt and uncle had room enough to take us the odd weekends our parents were on vacation. Their house was smaller than ours and I felt haughty in it. The walls were dark and the air smelled musty. In the afternoons dust poured in the air like cigarette smoke in an old black and white movie. Going out into the sun was blinding.
Because I can tell it's going to be a crappy day at work I dress up as Virgin Mary with my blue silk dress and white head scarf and lemon drop halo that got coffee spilled on it so it's a little warped, but it will do for one day of selling shoes.
What came next was one long show: broken strings, smashed microphones, guitar solos without boundaries or purpose, house parties with bands in the kitchen and bands in the attic, missing kick drum pedals, stolen snares, songs we couldn’t figure out how to end and we drifted inside them, lost within our own imaginations.
A linked story collection detailing the relationship between the 40-year-old narrator, her eighth-grade daughter, Eli, and her daughter’s best friend, Saul. Includes the Pushcart Prize winning story "Teen Culture."
Legs Get Led Astray
The original 2012 essay collection, redesigned and with three new essays by the author.
"Ellen’s gigantic, circular novel leaves everything on the page. It’s one of the most thoughtful and creative books I’ve read in a long time."
—Chicago Review of Books, "The Best Books of 2017 (So Far)"
"PERSON/A is a fresh take on familiar feelings of loss and obsession. The novel feels like half autobiography, half fiction, and both halves will leave readers stunned."
—The Los Angeles Review
"I’m more stunned than able to decide or articulate what I really feel about Person/a, and that’s marvelous."
—The Lit Pub