It’s not like I remember it, this planet. The blues and greens that painted me as a child have been replaced with browns and grays, the color of dry bones. Crouched here among these windowed walls, roofless with decay, I long for my youth. What winter could devastate me then, having known only a few silent snows, spectral with belonging?
Fiction Friday: The Resisters (Review)
Gish Jen’s eighth book, THE RESISTERS, is the feminist, dystopian, baseball novel we didn’t know we needed — and, actually, maybe we don’t.
Fiction Friday: “The Hole”
Jamie wasn’t like other guys. Other people, really. He was happy. And I mean, always happy. No one’s always happy.
Memorial Day, Veterans Day…what are they all about?
If we think only about what we get out of something, be it a Hollywood movie or a national holiday, we don't really deserve it. If we don't know or comprehend the significance of the history behind such things, we have failed our fellow Americans.
Fiction Friday: “Coming Home”
MAURA SANDERS was lying in a hospital bed waiting to die. At 24, she couldn't imagine a more terrible fate, but if she was honest with herself, she couldn't really imagine a better one either.
Fiction Friday: “For All We Know”
When Kenny shot Charlie, no one was really sure how to react. It wasn't because it was all that surprising — Kenny had had it out for Charlie since day one — but we didn't know whether to rejoice at the end of a feud or dread whatever was coming next.
Fiction Friday: “Fulfillment”
“Where’s my cannoli?” a little voice behind me says.
Fiction Friday: “Sunday”
I was married, once. She was French. Her names was Inès, and I suppose I should have known that any woman whose name means “chaste” (especially if she’s French) is destined to live ironically.
Fiction Friday: Gone Girl
What impresses me most about this book is it's crazy but clear logic — the skill with which Flynn is able to orchestrate this insane narrative and the meticulous planning she must have done to make this story work.
Fiction Friday: “In Bloom”
It was on that first night in August when Lily Böhn tip-toed across the cobbles of Isola Bella to the Pier in her pink ballet slippers that she heard the gospel truth from Harvey Whittaker.