Brad Zellar I slid unwelcome into this world, unbroken, but battered by the disappointment of those to whom I was delivered. I scrambled above their unhappiness and learned to believe. I found a place to stand, and kept moving. I had one man’s truth, and flung it like a stone at this world. I cried in … Read more
Holy shit, I’ve been wasting a lot of time watching baseball the last few weeks, and it’s been nice to have a few days off, even if that hiatus is the result of one of the least dramatic first rounds in recent memory. Like my pal Britt Robson over at On the Ball I can … Read more
Most nights Hurley would sit up late, drinking, and would fall asleep looking for God. He heard leaves falling and trapped, swirling, in the alley out back. And then: the rattle of piss beneath his window and someone warbling a sad song. Some days he saw gulls, so many gulls, with no water anywhere around, … Read more
No birds. No flowers. No bees. No moon. No water, moving or still. Nothing growing. Nothing stirring in the shadows. No history. No satisfying toil or contemplation of love. No memories. For no one. Dreams of leaving, I suppose. And the cold shoulder, sure. Or if interest, so fervent as to be suspect, if not … Read more
I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know what a dream is anymore. I got a lot of shit kicked out of me. Have you somehow made your peace with this world? I’m curious: without getting all religious or flaky on me, can you tell me how you did that? Once upon a … Read more
We are children, and then we work. If we’re fortunate, at any rate, we’re allowed to experience our childhood as children, and able, when the time comes to make our way in the world, to find work. Meaningful work, if we’re truly fortunate. The truth, though, is that the introductory icebreaker for youngsters—“How old are … Read more
The stalwarts at Rain Taxi once again put together this full day of lit love for the seventh annual TCBF, which is now firmly entrenched as an autumn tradition and a welcome respite from the paralyzing onslaught of seasonal affective disorder. Think of the day as a sort of Renaissance Festival for bibliomaniacs. You probably … Read more
Cheating at Canasta is a marvelous, enviable title, and William Trevor is an astonishing, and astonishingly reliable, writer. Along with Alice Munro, he is also one of the living masters of the short story. That sort of thing usually sounds like so much hogwash, but in this instance it’s nothing but the plain truth. Even … Read more
It’s always a good thing when poetry offers surprises (it’s rarer than you might think—if in fact you think about poetry at all). It’s also a good thing when poetry offers lucidity, music, and mystery in something like equal measure (also rarer than you might think). Jeffrey Harrison’s poetry offers all of those things with … Read more
I learned early that I’d never be the king of anything. I can for damn sure live with that the short time I have left. Nobody needs to tell me what I am, and I don’t have the time of day for a notion so foolish as who. Leave that horseshit to the pansies. I … Read more