No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Celebrating Diversity Since 2015
I should have been smart enough to realize something most peculiar was up if I had noticed that the title page of Joy Williams short story in the Sept 30th New Yorker was all in small caps, both title and author’s name. That can be taken as a signal of formal innovation, an expectation that is most often disappointed, only not in this case.
We were going to make big money, Ray and I, money enough to pay for my Caribbean life.
The little girl was not a particularly beautiful child. Cute, in a gangly, grubby, natural way: thin stringy hair, knobby knees, one front tooth missing, the other a new too-large adult tooth.
The Memory Police approaches Kafka in its literary excellence, which is a startling surprise. It’s as dark as dystopian gets, but sensitive and extremely precise in its dark matter energy.
I don’t know if anyone’s ever loved me, maybe my parents did, I haven’t seen them in years, they kicked me out when I was in high school, they said they couldn’t deal with me anymore, I felt like I wasn’t finished dealing with them. I miss them sometimes, especially my father, he died a few years ago. I can’t call my mother, she won’t answer, neither will my sister.
The important question is the layout of the palace. I have no training and go about it all wrong, façade first. The thousands of curved balconies, arched windows – how to avoid cyclopean boredom?