?, "The Choking Pearl"

She's at a party and wants to bite this guy's cheek.

(from The Secret Society of Demolition Writers)

I don't want to play favorites here at I Read A Short Story Hear Today, but I'm not against listing my favorites: Alice Munro, Kurt Vonnegut, George Saunders, Hannah Tinti, Wells Tower, used book stores, free books, fun stories, good reading music. Learned to get over my distaste for borrowed books. And of course, as I've said before, I'm a big fan of unreliable narrators. They make you feel like you're in the driver's seat, a little bit, because your mind has to wander and guess and explore to make sense of everything. But you're also belted into the passenger seat, because the author is only taking you where she or he wants to.
This story's got that, probably because our main character, whose desires and wandering thoughts provide most of the clues, is fond of the drink. Key details are unspoken. Unexplainable motives are stated matter-of-factly. You feel bad for her and the people around her. Short. Occasionally pretentious with all those Plath allusions. Cool.

?, "An Eye For An Eye"

Tension in the young couple's relationship reaches a minature breaking point at a restaurant.

(from The Secret Society of Demolition Writers)

Although I don't know the author, I felt like most of this story was too familiar to keep me interested. That said, it ends with a neat, memorable moment with the two seeing each other in a simple, new way (literally), and that beautiful moment forgives and forgets everything else. Nice save.

?, “Ashes”

A cable guy finds a body.

(from The Secret Society of Demolition Writers)

Eh. Not a bad story. Not poorly written. But also not dazzling or particularly original. Had some interesting details, but was too short and simple.

Early morning in Nethers.

?, “Wonderland”

A sarcastic college student is suddenly put in charge of the daughter of the maintenance man she’s sleeping with.

(from The Secret Society of Demolition Writers)

Yes. This is a cool story. The narrator is so snide and sarcastic and bitter and uncaring you want to yell at her. She does have moments of humanity, glimpses of understanding, but she treats everything like a waste of time, everybody like a drag. When she has visitor her during the duration of Jessamina’s stay with her. She’s too much of dick for friends. Which is not to say we, the readers of America, do not feel for her. She’s had it rough and the situation is ridiculous.
“Wonderland” is smart in tone and pacing, in description and setting. The dialogue is pretty dead on too. I wonder who wrote it.

Early morning in Nethers.

?, “Deck”

You remember your first love and things like that?

(from The Secret Society of Demolition Writers)

A short one, all in second person. It’s mostly a wandering exploration of one person’s love life and career, in fits and starts and ruminations. I bet if there’s one story in this collection that gives away too much about its author, this is it. It just feels autobiographical. Of course, this could be the work of a writer meaning to give that vibe. If I knew anything about the private lives of any of the authors in this collection, I might be able to make an educated guess as to his/her identity.

I read this in Nethers, where the wind whooshes through the bamboo, an owl hunts in the distance and a guy name Stan picks up a snake to make sure he doesn’t close the door on it.

?, “Sweet”

A day in the life of a mentally disturbed bum.

(from The Secret Society of Demolition Writers)

No plot, just this author’s imaginative journal of one streetwalker’s daily routine of begging and hoping the voices don’t come back. Isn’t there a Phil Collins song like this? Yeah, I don’t think I’d want my name on this story either.

I read this in Nethers.

A.S. Byatt, “The Narrow Jet”

Two old men emboldened by their lack of necessity set about designing and building a fountain in a nearby pond, much to the surprise of the creature who lives in it.

(from The Paris Review, #173)

As a film, probably some sprawling international indie job, this tale would hardly be worth the caffeine it would take to get through it. But in Byatt’s careful hands, it is an exciting and fun story. The actions of the old men are put in context of their complex feelings of self-worth and values. The creature’s thoughts, or, at least, her motivations, are also delivered with understanding, care and whimsy.
There were some pleasant, rare words in this story: hermitage, plashing, cannikin, rowlocks, macerated woad, pochards, sticklebacks, muniments, surcoat, integument. Four things were given the “she” tag: The creature, the boat, the model and the siren fountain.

I read this story late at night in Nethers, and wrote this entry in the early morning with the unceasing soundtrack of the mighty Hughes River rushing by just below my window. All night a giant bird which apparently means me no harm delivered its spooky caw at nearly regular intervals. Once I realized we had a deal, I slept soundly.

?, “The Safe Man”

A not-so-routine safecracking job leads Brian Holloway into a series of nonfortunate events.

(from The Secret Society of Demolition Writers)

A fun little story. Some of the language is a little clunky, and you can see the plot unfolding like a Transformer well before things start happening. But it’s appropriately spooky and angsty. I like issues of doubt and confusion that spring up just as the couple are on the verge of having their first couple. This is where the story strays from convention and leads the reader to care for the characters, long after that seemed improbable. I also liked the very brief moment when you the reader started to doubt Brian’s story like everybody else.
It should be noted that the clunkiness may be this writer’s attempt at Michael Crichton/Tom Clancy-action-suspense, where plain language and straightforward dialogue keeps the reader’s mind on the plot.

I read this in Shelly’s car on the way to Nethers, Virginia, and wrote it up there. The date on which this appears to be posted is a lie, a trick of the trade. But that is the day I read the story, so, you know.

?, "There is No Palindrome of Palindrome"

A married woman who killed her parents has taken a liking to Babe, the friendly widowed pharmacist.

(from The Secret Society of Demolition Writers)

This story liked to jump around in styles, in chronology, in perspectives, in approach. But never in a too-slick or too-annoying experimental film kinda way. It made its jumps sparingly, and hardly ever to move the main action.
It's funny, at the start, you think Babe is the crazy one, given his sorta fascination with checking out tonsils. As things move along, you forget he's weird or weird looking. Understanding Connie a bit like a reversal of that process. I very much enjoyed the way Connie's speech was written. There was a telling cadence to it, something that implied both her age and her maturity.
"I just want to—" She clenched her hand and mimed yanking someone else's pants down. "You know? I want to pants them." She hooted. "Seriously, that's what would have happened in my high school."

Rilo Kiley, "Science Vs. Romance"

?, "Eggs"

Cynthia starts selling her eggs around the same time her mother's cancer relapse.

(from The Secret Society of Demolition Writers)

"I'm twenty-one, sun sensitive, my skin as white as milk in a blue china cup."

I liked it. I mean, early on, parts of this story are awkward — the phrasing, the askew observations. But it's just enough to keep you off kilter. And it's building to something inventive and memorable.
It's funny, even those occasional stilted phrases were also neat, tactile or visual images like in the quote above. It's not a sentence, strictly speaking, but it gets it all across and stimulates the senses. Cool story.


Why don't I know who wrote this? Because while we know who wrote the stories in The Secret Society of Demolition Writers, we don't know who wrote what. It's a mystery you can let go or puzzle over. I think I shall puzzle. The choices are: Aimee Bender, Benjamin Cheever, Michael Connelly, Sebastian Junger, Elizabeth McCracken, Rosie O'Donnell, Chris Offutt, Anna Quindlen, John Burnham Schwartz, Alice Sebold, Lauren Slater and Marc Parent, who is also the editor. Hm. When I'm through the book, I'll take some guesses as to who wrote what.
The point of this collection, according to Marc Parent's intro, is not to play an author-to-story match game, but to create an environment of fearlessness for the author. "Released from the constraints of your reputation and the expectations that come with it, how far would you go?" he asks. That said, he welcomes the readers to pin the bylines on the stories, but warns that the authors have been deceptive on purpose, perhaps imitating their peers within the collection. Doesn't exactly sound fearless, but hey.
Here's hoping Rosie O'Donnell's is some kinda fiery masterpiece. Why? Because I like underdogs, and an author better known for slinging koosh balls has something to prove.

The Hold Steady, "Multitude of Casualties"

Melissa Bank, "Run Run Run Run Run Run Run Away"

Sophie doesn't love her brother's new girlfriend as much as he does.

(from Ploughshares, Spring 2005)

I try to talk to her but it is just me asking questions and her answering them. My questions get longer, her answers shorter. Still I don't quit. I'm like a gambler who keeps thinking, Maybe the next hand.

I knew from the Talking Headsian title that I'd dig this story. It's warm and kind but also funny and sarcastic and real. I love a snarky narrator almost as much as I love an unreliable one. Bank hints at the complexities of the sibling relationships without getting too much out in the open. Isn't that how brothers and sisters interact? Caring without burdening each other with too much information.

One day soon I'm gonna go off on every other story I come across being set in New York City, but not right now. This story is good. It deserves better than that.

But please.

Keren Ann, "By The Cathedral"

Daniel Orozco, "Orientation"

What you need to know about your new office.

(from Best American Short Stories, 1995)

Those are the offices and these are the cubicles. That's my cubicle there, and this is your cubicle. This is your phone. Never answer your phone.

It is what it sounds like, the get-acquainted first-day-of-work speech. After it takes you through the copies and the coffee, it moves to the soap operatics and then into darker territory. Still, even as it moves into the absurd and impossible — always in that bored, tour-guidey human resources cadence — it's never an unrecognizeable fantasy. And it's always funny.
Here's where you can read the story. It's not long and it's a fun read.

J. David Stevens, "The Sniper's Story"

The marksman reflects on the little things.

(from The Paris Review, #148, on loan from Jessican Lowenthal)

A tiny little thing. The wartime sniper just lists a couple things he's noticed during his time as an unseen bestower of death. He has a favorite spot which would be pretty lovely in peacetime. There are people he could kill but doesn't. He's not sure why. An interesting a brief examination.

Stevens wrote this once, a sarcastic lamentation on the death of the short story. Funny stuff.

Del Tha Funky Homosapien, "Mistadobalina (Remix)"

Gina Ochsner, "Elegy in Water"

Frank meets a mermaid whom he suspects is his dead wife.

(from Black Warrior Review, vol. 31, #2)

Love this story. Short, sharp, smart, spooky, gorgeous. Plotwise, and moodwise, this story appeals to my superstitious nature. The way the fisherman in this story are spooked by their blue collar mythologies. The way bad luck manifests itself in shipwrecks, diving gulls and fouls smells. It's also sensuously detailed and confident in its vision. You just know you're in good hands.

Today was my birthday and I was drunk in Borders. So I bought some things.
1) The abovementioned issue of Black Warrior Review. I liked the look of this book, but had previously passed on it because I tend to look for purchases that give me a high ratio of short fiction. This one also has some comic strips and poetry and stuff. Here's a link.
2) The Paris Review, #173. Fiction by A.S. Byatt, Rick Moody and more. Cool cover. Looked like a can't miss. Here's the link.
3) The Iowa Review, vol. 35, #1. Had good luck with the last issue, far as I can remember. Here's a link for that.
4) Ploughshares, vol. 31, #1. Fiction by Melissa Bank and others. Yikes, a lot of poetry in this one, too. Oh well. Click here.
5) The Believer, vol. 3, #4. You know I never seem to read more than one thing in any issue of The Believer, so I haven't picked it up in a while. But it always looks fun, so sometimes it suckers me. I heard the next issue's got a sweet CD with Cynthia Mason, The Mountain Goats, The Decemberists and such. Here's a link to The Believer.
6) In/Vision, Spring 2005. Collection of poetry and fiction by students of Temple University's creative writing program. Flipping through, I found that an old friend has some poems in it. At the register, nobody seemed to know what to charge me for this. After a lengthy but fruitless investigation, we ended up just scanning an issue of Glamour, which is probably cheaper. Can't find a good link for In/Vision, so here.

Salvador Plascencia, "Pollinating Insects"

Cameroon has a for real glowing halo and a bee sting habit. She and Saturn have their honeymoon.

(from Tin House, Vol. 6, Number 3)

This is like one of those befuddling IFC movies so full of weird moments and memorable images that you hope there's something behind it all — a plot, a meaning, a plan. But if there isn't one, it's okay.
I could probably write lots more about this freaky deaky story but I won't because damn if the author notes didn't once again reveal that I had read an excerpt from a novel. Rrr. I didn't read a short story today, I guess. If I was the type to read a book, I don't think I'd like to read a whole book written the way "Pollinating Insects" is written, all dense and hazy and quirkier than thou. Then again, that might be when it all makes sense.
It made a fine short story reading experience, but still you know, rrr.

Patrick Marber, "Peter Shelley"

Two young Brits have their first go at sex while listening to the new Sex Pistols single.

(from Speaking With The Angel)

The best part is when the two kids are silently trying to decipher the album art. It's full of befuddling symbols they like but which they can't quite figure out. I think about punk music more than I listen to it.
I've never read Patrick Marber before. IMDB's got him as the screenwriter behind Closer, which looked like your boilerplate artsy adultery movie. Ain't fair of me to say, but I've seen enough of those under the Ritz umbrella to have developed an unreasonable intolerance. Marber was up for a Golden Globe for Closer. Here's that IMDB entry.
This page, for some sort of gambling site for some reason, says this about him: "Patrick Marber is 36 and currently lives happily in London with his actress girlfriend and his West Highland Terrier." I find that sentence preposterous in ways I am unable to express. Here's a go at it: 'Actress girlfriend' would only be a cool description if it were a dig. Like: 'She's faking it.' I know Marber didn't write it.

"Me And Julio Down By The Schoolyard," Paul Simon

Nick Arvin, "Along The Highways"

Graham's chasing his ex-friend and his ex-sister-in-law.

(from The New Yorker, May 9 2005)

This story was really good at being subtly funny while it was lightly dangerous, absurd and unreasonable while also endearing and understandable. It takes a steady hand to make the inane actions of a man like Graham seem, if not sane, then possible.
I liked this line:
The water could not be seen in the nighttime dark, but when the trees opened the lake was implied by a vast, indefinite nothingness.
And this one:
Graham folded his fingers into fists, or approximations of fists—it seemed as if he were doing this wrong somehow.
Here's where you can find this story for your own reading pleasure.

I'm going to make a point to stay up-to-date on my New Yorkers because A) it's always good source for fiction and B) every time I see my uncle Bob we make a point to talk about fiction and I never seem to have read the ones he has. My family is taking casual note of my fiction kick; my aunt Maryanne and Sandy gave me a gift certificate for Barnes and Noble.

Roxana Robinson, "A Perfect Stranger"

A member of the Music Festival's Lectures Committee, Martha volunteers to open her house to Kingsley, the opera expert, much to the overt dislike of her husband Jeffrey.

(from One Story, issue 55)

You know how experimental/daring/pretentious TV shows and movies may show you events from one perspective then show them to you again from another? This first couple pages of this story do that, but there are hardly any actual events being repeated. Which is okay. This story thrives not on action, but slow unfolding. I thought something might, you know, happen at some point. And nothing big really does. If somebody called you up and told you this long-winded go-nowhere series of non-events, you'd be all dude, you're wasting my minutes. But as a read, it's not a harsh imposition.
That said, this story was long-winded and unnecessarily redundant at times, in ways that hinted more at carelessness than stylistic choice. Interestingly, there's a short scene in which Jeffrey tells Kingsley his opinion that modern writers write too long because of computers. It's sort of interesting. I'm not gonna just go blaming a computer for this story's substantial length. But only because there's one in the room looking at me right now. I think it knows I'm thinking about it. Gotta go.

Grace Paley, "A Conversation with My Father"

Her father is sickly and old and wants her to write a classic plot-driven story, the way the old favorites used to. She gives it a shot.

(from The Collected Stories)

Okay, you know I don't go for meta much. But this bit of sedate and thoughtful satire gives hope to all self-important artists everywhere. Almost all of them. Almost hope. Mostly because there's this character, her dad, who's full of life and stubborn and, despite the apparent success of his author-daughter, decisive about the kind of fiction he likes. He's a kind of voice of reason. It also helps that the narrator's similarly stubborn and decisive. And not particularly self-important.
"I would like you to write a simple story just once more," he says, "the kind de Maupassant wrote, or Chekhov, the kind you used to write. Just recognizable people and then write down what happened to them next."
I say, "Yes, why not? That's possible." I want to please him, though I don't remember writing that way. I would like to try to tell such a story, if he means the kind that begins: "There was a woman..." followed by plot, the absolute line between two points which I've always despised. Not for literary reasons, but because it takes all hope away. Everyone, real or invented, deserves the open destiny of life.
Beautiful.
Somebody named Andie Miller recommended this story to me, and sent me a link to read it here. Excellent suggestion. From what I gather Andie, lives in Johannesburg, South Africa, which might be furthest location from which I've received correspondence. Well, maybe. How far is China from Philadelphia?

Jill McCorkle, “Turtles”

Carly thinks back on past loves while pining for the hottest guy in the nursing home.

(from Creatures of Habit)

This is a sad, sad story fueled by the fairly universal fears of getting old and feeling useless. I love stories told by unreliable narrators, and this one slowly comes through in that respect. Reality gets bent gently, not flat-out shattered like sci-fi. Not knocking sci-fi.
Here’s a line I like:
“Carly tells them she doesn’t like the fact that the only big window near her room is made of stained glass and it gives her a dark sad feeling to try and see through it.”
Every story in this collection has an animal name — “Snakes,” “Chickens,” “Starlings,” “Billy Goats” and more. This story is set at the Turtle Bay Nursing Home, but nobody reliable has ever seen the turtles who supposedly live in the marshland behind the home.
We talk about turtles a lot at work.

Eric Shade, “Superfly”

Young Wayne contemplates death and love on an all-night drinking binge in the cemetery with Mosey and Jinxie.

(from Eyesores)

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I told him.
“You will,” he said. “You’ll believe in love and ghosts before the night is through.
We ran through the graveyard, jumping over headstones.

This is one of those small town grew up way too fast sexual awakening drugs beer loss of innocence coming of age realization of mortality stories and it’s pretty good. The character types are familiar — the narrator is your basic moral idiot, Mosey is the jerk pal and Jinxie is wayward slut — but the neat aside about the local man who commits suicide-by-cop shines an interesting light on the boys, their interest in death and their collection of knowledge through macabre anecdotes.
I should point out that I find these characters to be familiar from life as much as from works of fiction. They’re real enough. This story was not mired in cliché or stereotype beyond those which actual people regularly adhere. I wonder, though, why the Moseys of the world — the irrepressibly immature and assholic friends — are never the narrators. Is it impossible to justify their actions, to put thought behind their ignorant and cruel behavior? Is Mosey inexplicable?
Eric Shade, whom I’ve never read before, is from Altoona, Pennsylvania. Yuengling gets a shout-out.

Giles Smith, "Last Requests"

What it's like to be the chef who makes the final meals for death row inmates.

(from Speaking with the Angel)

There's no action per se, but plenty of vignettes into this charming woman's fascinating job. It's a funny mix of peace and pain as she humanizes her unseen customers despite their apparent inhumanity. I found her sort of admirable. If this were based on a real person, I would be surprised but immensely pleased. There's something hopeful about her attitude under such hopeless conditions. A nice, interesting story.
I don't know much about this author. Here is an article by somebody named Giles Smith calling for football (soccer) refs to have artificial brains inserted.

Darcey Steinke, "Milk"

A young mother takes her baby for a walk and waits for her husband to come home.

(from Black Clock #3)

Well, plot-wise, there's not a lot going on, but this is a pretty day-in-the-life examination of a deep and sympathetic character. Aha, this "story" is really an excerpt from her new book, also called Milk. So, there's probably a for-real plot TK. I'm not a book person. I read short stories, approximately one per day. But I'm guessing it'll be a good, warm, humane book that somebody would enjoy.
Steinke runs a "web project" called Blindspot, which you can find here. My browser is not compatible with it; I use Firefox. To me it's all floating icons and secret handshakes.

Robert Harris, "PMQ"

The Prime Minister tries to set the record straight on that fateful night in his personal statement to the Speaker of the House.

(from Speaking With The Angel)

Nice. This Robert Harris guy has just the right steadiness of hand to make this silly story work. Official versions of grandly embarassing events, an established genre at this point, require a firm touch to keep things from straying too far into farce. This is all about a guy making stupid mistakes in a moment of weakness and trying to save face at every turn. It was adventurous and winding like a movie, but that format wouldn't have much place for the dwindling dignity of the narrator, nor would it forgive his unexplainable actions, and without those things this would be a farce. As a story it is comfortable and believable and hilarious.

"It's none of my business, but don't you think he's due for a sorting, the way he's going on?"

Robert Arellano, "The Two Stevens"

The narrator is of two minds about the men he (or she?) usually ends up killing.

(from Tin House, vol. 6, number 3)

Within the confines of its very familar genre (the ol' first person inside the mind of the maniac killer who's all sexed up and confused), this story is original enough to make it memorable and distinguish it from others somewhat like it. It might even be super super original, if my one theory is actually true. That the narrator and all the men are hamsters. It's not a perfect fit, but it would explain so very much.

Today I bought this, my first copy of Tin House. It's their "obsession" themed issue. I also bought Black Clock #3, even though I've barely touched #2, because it's so very pretty and because I'm just buying a lot of things which contain stories. Too many, even for somebody who reads a short story a day (or tries to).
Then I saw The Mountain Goats, my favorite band.

I hopped on back of the bike
wrapped my arms around you
and I sank my face into your hair
and then I inhaled as deeply as I possibly could
you were as sweet and delicious as the warm desert air
and you pointed your headlamp toward the horizon,
we were the one thing in the galaxy god didn't have his eyes on
900 CCs of raw whining power,
no outstanding warrants for my arrest.
hi diddle dee dee
god damn!
the pirate's life for me!

Tessa Brown, "In Reference To Your Recent Communications"

She's right and he's wrong. Here's why.

(from Harper's Magazine, May 2005)

A funny, sharp and appropriately short story. Even its occasional, jarring forays into broad, silly comedy are steered by a light touch. And I'm a sucker for comedic footnotes.
The story comes with this note: "Tessa Brown is a freshman at Princeton University. This is her first published story." A good start.

* * *

It took every dime I had — the only money I'd ever saved in my life — but I got myself a new laptop. (Like its predecessor, my brother Mike and his credit card made it happen. This time, though, he gets miles.) So game on. I haven't given up on the t-shirt idea. I need to save some money to get them made.

Helen Fielding, "Luckybitch"

An older woman with a penchant for fast livin' falls down in her bathroom and can't get up.

(from Speaking With The Angel)

This is a funny, somewhat cartoonish though occasionally very plausible, story about an old woman's pride and diminishing prowess. I read this review which claims the author has contempt for her character but I didn't get that at all. She was treated with equal parts dignity and humanity and that's about all any of us can hope for.
She's definitely an example of the Mona Complex. Named after Mona Robinson from Who's The Boss, this refers to any older or otherwise classically undesirable character who is regarded as absurdly sexually viable by herself/himself, surrounding characters and/or the creaters of the fiction world in which the character lives. Other famous Monas include Sam Malone (Cheers), Suzanne Sugarbaker (Designing Women), Sandra Clarke (227) and, perhaps the finest of them all, Blanche Devereaux (The Golden Girls). Your call on Fonzie.