Leaving the airport is what frightens her, walking from the cocoon of baggage carousels and rental car booths out into the brightness of the California sun. Natalie loves planes, the enormous airlessness of them, the cold of the window pressed against her cheek, and the efficient flight attendants with their carts full plastic dinner trays …
I tell them there are monsters everywhere, but they never believe me. Not really. They hire me often enough—I even have to turn down jobs—but they don’t really believe me. Even now they aren’t paying attention. They know where their children are, and they can be there quickly in the case of a skinned knee, …
When D started using again I hid the wallet and debit cards in a laundry basket under the bed, along with the check book, silver earrings, and car keys. Weapons were found: neglected staple gun (empty, mostly likely), red rung of a quilt rack (could give a good whack), book of feminist poetry (to distract). …
Paul scrambled down the riverbank’s long slope. He clutched his pack’s shoulder strap, assured by the rattle from beneath the canvas skin. Front Street’s lights faded, and each step brought a deeper darkness. The curfew sirens wailed—a single, stretching note not heard since the dam broke. The police with their orders. The National Guard stationed outside …
Last week in Part One of our interview with James Hannaham, we reflected on “High Five,” his work that was recently published in Story. He discussed his inspiration for the piece as well as his ideas of fame and his work following the tragedy of 9/11. This week, we conclude the interview, discussing Hannaham’s new, upcoming …
You killed Tatiana because you were jealous, didn’t you, Tiffany Savage. You seethed over her top-notch manicurist, her platinum rings and bracelets encrusted with lapis lazuli, her Moroccan leather gloves. You despised her ability to take it all for granted, casually cupping Fortunoff snifters at the ball of her thumb, letting Matilda smooth exotic cremes …
Later you would call it an accident, when the guests found you in the kitchen bleeding into the duck confit. When that didn’t work, you blamed me, just to save your own skin. Yet we know the truth, don’t we? And when we hear your confession, my name will be cleared once and for all, …
“I’m going to marry him,” my sister says, standing in my kitchen. I don’t want her in my kitchen. I wonder if she can feel me not wanting her in my kitchen. “Do you love him?” I ask. “He’s wonderful. He loves me so much.” “That’s not a reason to marry him.” “No,” she says. …
I was first introduced to Mary Miller and her work in a circuitous way. Upon joining the magazine and learning the ropes, I was asked to check out her story in issue #1 and see if I would like to do an interview with her. I was also given her debut novel Last Days of …