The girls don't like the new houseguests, or any of the houseguests ever.
(from The Best American Short Stories 2005)
The titular characters in this absurd, freaky little story are wonderful monsters. They're like those two creatures from Nothing But Trouble on the inside and, maybe, like Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie on the outside. They're so spectacularly petty and ridiculous that this story made me laugh out loud. The overall meaning of all this, and there was one, is a little muddy in my mind because, well… People of earth, reading is hard. It's not easy. I started this story, this short, short story, some four days ago, picking it up only when I was essentially too tired to read. I would get through a page or two at best before surrendering. But I liked the story, I like it. It's just, reading is hard work. If I thought it was easy, I don't think I'd have a web site where I'm all proud of doing it, especially not in the short bursts of reading I recount here. My point? I need to set aside more time in my day for the purpose of reading, in the same way I reserve certain hours for going to work.
Oh yeah, in case you're interested, here are some signs I saw recently, whilst on vacation. Silkworm, "Developer"
Three well-off, fratty tennis players aim their frustration at losing their fourth at his replacement.
(from The Missouri Review, Winter 2005)
Stylish and smart. I'm not sure what the points were all adding up to, but it's a swift and exciting story to read. Levine captures misdirected anger well — and it almost justifies the worldview of its hotheaded narrator. Well, more like it make it reasonable that people think that way. Here's a link to the Missouri Review.
Two crewman hide their love for each other aboard the Hindenburg.
(from Love and Hydrogen)
Awesome. A heartbreaking and funny love story. Also, this is a Doomed Story. What's that? A Doomed Story is where you know the characters are travelling aboard some vehicle or working in some building that is slated for disaster by history. Maybe it's a power plant you already know blew up, or ship that sank, a bridge that collapsed, a balloon that popped. Like Titanic. Or David Foster Wallace's really excellent story "The Suffering Channel," wherein overprivileged interns and magazine editors spend an inordinate amount of time working on a 400 word story (about a guy who poops art). By the way, they're employed in the World Trade Center and it's Sept. 10, 2001. (Here's my write-up on that.) My short story "Pompeii Comeback Volleyball Geezers of the Year" — about a ragtag group of elderly volleyball players who defy their ages to contend for the national championship, only to get obliterated by the giant volcano under their feet — would also be an example of a Doomed Story.
They live on the back of a fish, but somehow she's not happy.
(from The O. Henry Prize Stories 2006)
Who knows what she would do in such a situation? Thrash and flail the sea, flinging our meager posts and provisions miles across the deep? Perhaps, but Ceta is the gentlest of beasts, and also the wisest—she would see the futility in such aggression, knowing with a beast's instinctual wisdom that there's no cure for calamity once it has lodged itself inside.
Man. Best story I've read in a long time. These people live, somehow on the back of a fish (or they think it's a fish, although some signs point to whale or dolphin) that's big enough for huts and other amenities. It's a benevolent creature. It doesn't seem to dip below the surface. So life should be sort of carefree for the nigh-scientist of the group, but his lover, Osa, she thinks there's something better out there. Beautifully angsty and mysterious. Yes, there are small tributaries to Waterworld here, but that doesn't bother me one bit. No, this wasn't written by Hack. Here's an interview with David Lawrence Morse about "Conceived." Wish I could find a link to the story proper, because it's awesome.
Eve develops a friendship with Lola, the super-smart chimp she's studying.
(from The O. Henry Prize Stories 2006)
Fascinating story about learning and language arranged in pleasant mini-chapters. Made me wonder how much of this was true about the way these chimps can communicate. Are they really this logical and coherent? Or was this sci-fi? Very cool either way.
Harry and his new wife drive to visit his sick father.
(from The O. Henry Prize Stories 2006)
I didn't get, or maybe just didn't care for, the way this story shifted perspectives from the angsty Harry to Amelia who has little insight into the apparently complicated relationship between her husband and his father. All she ends up contributing is her Debbie Downer perspective. Maybe I just wasn't feeling like tuning into the subtlety.
Cool, strange little story told by a gender-unknown narrator, telling the story of her/his father sorta-kinda courting his/her mother. The storyline runs astride with the tractors essentially putting mules out of work and, so, to death. Hard to explain the vibe here. I enjoyed reading it.
Okay, now I’m two stories into the latest O. Henry and I’ve been wowed more with substance than with style. For the most part, “Old Boys, Old Girls” is written rather utilitarianly, executing its task with certainty and poise. It does, occasionally, dabble in poetic language, mostly to describe angst. But mostly it deals in the real: hookers, jail, violence, murder, and such. Real urban trials misdeeds. It’s so winding and gritty and deliberate; I felt like a nicely shot indie film would do the story justice. Turns out, according to those ending notes, this is the continuation of some of Jones’ older works and characters. I can see why he would want to revisit this world. Makes me want to dig up the older stuff (“Young Lions”/Lost in the City).
They had a comfortable relationship until one of them started reading Martin Amis.
(from The O. Henry Prize Stories 2006)
On one hand, this story was right on. The heartbreaking parts rang true and clear. These moments were nice. But some of the prose was so awkward, so repetitive, it made me stop. I mean, this was a story narrated by someone who had trouble expressing herself, putting her thoughts, and her partner’s mindset, into words she herself can understand. But there were times when I felt like it was the writer who was clunking, and this was distracting. That said, this story had some memorable quirks and situations. The Martin Amis thing was funny.
Dad picks you up from jail, and even brings you a hooker, so try to remember where the diamond is.
(from The Best American Short Stories 2005)
Your father picks you up from prison in a stolen Dodge Neon, with an 8-ball of coke in the glove compartment and a hooker named Mandy in the back seat.
That's the first line in this entertaining, dark, extrovert of a story where everybody's a villain. It's in second person. Sometimes it's just really fun to read about jerks with guns and jewels and hookers and coke. Looks like it's gonna be a movie. Now, I would say the camera should be entirely from the son's perspective, to keep true with the story's second person angle. You might say, that's first person. I disagree.
Jane Stuart, "Why I Think I Really Am In Love With Frank"
She's got an overactive imagination.
(from Zone 3, Vo. XXL, No. 1)
Before you get all shocked that I read two stories in one day, please note: I'm not sure I did. "Why I Think I Really Am In Love With Frank" might really be some kinda of linear-ish poem, or the missing link between two genres. It walks upright like a short story, but lurks in shadow and insanity, like a poem. I don't know exactly what went on in the piece besides some interesting ideas and images. I mean, there are clues. Hints are made. Gists are gotten. But, in the end, the narrator is too unreliable for me to create a concrete theory. And interesting read, though. Emmylou Haris, Alison Kraus and Gillian Welch, "Didn't Leave Nobody But the Baby"
Young Ritu is destined for a life that Western eyes would call bleak.
(from Zone 3, Vol. XXI, No. 1)
And then she gets that life. There are no twists, and the culture clashes occur quietly, internally. Neelam and Roberta, who observe the lives of the North Indian village people with different degrees understanding, just come in to check out the scene. Like the reader, they can't help Ritu. So we're all just, like, trapped where we are, then? Well played, author. This is a bitter story. I need to brush my teeth of it. I Googled "Ritu's Marriage" and found these wedding photos. I looked up "Phil Harvey" and found out he's a reproductive rights advocate. Check out this article from The Economist. Here's Zone 3. It's a simple, pretty journal. Cheap too ($5).
You don't need to teach this kid anatomy, he survived a war.
(from Agni 63)
We talk in rounds, each listening for our moment in the rhythm of the conversation. When I first came here, the customs official gave a long speech about local etiquette; since then, I’ve often heard people, on TV and at school, go on in this way for great lengths of time. Perhaps this is why they say we are quiet people—we are waiting for our turn to speak.
Well, the linear way the main character draws parallels between the sex ed/anatomy lesson and his own experience with grisly, bloody war is a bit contrived. It's more like the kid's written an essay than relating his train of thought. No matter, the story is punchy, fast-paced and unputdownable. And the ending passage is satisyingly grim and memorable. There are several moments like this, actually. You should read this story. Here.
A man can't get an overheard half-conversation out of his mind.
(from Virginia Quarterly Review, Spring 2006)
There's this eating disorders doctor talking way too loudly to a colleague on his cell phone. Early signs point to him being ethically challenged, but he ends up showing signs of cleverness, depth and redemption. How to interpret the man and his story of trying to treat a boy who won't eat weighs heavily on the mind of the overhearer, a D.A. with his own experiences with mental imbalances. It all leads up to a philosophical question that isn't so deep, but which the D.A. can't get out of his head. It's not what drives the reader, but that's ok. This story pulls you a long with its little arcs as well as its large one. Here's a link to Virginia Quarterly Review.
Is it too soon to read a fictionalization of the private life of a 9/11 terrorist? No, because people who read never think it's too soon. The story was inspired by this mysterious footnote from The 9/11 Commission Report: No physical, documentary, or analytical evidence provides a convincing explanation of why Atta and Omari drove to Portland, Maine, from Boston on the morning of September 10, only to return to Logan on Flight 5930 on the morning of September 11. I'd read the Report when it came out — and reviewed it here — but this little blurb about Portland didn't ring a bell. Guess I only skimmed the footnotes. Using Atta's "lost time" as a jumping off point, Amis sets about crafting something like an excerise but also like literary revenge, however joyless or futile. He clearly did some research before writing "The Last Days of Muhammad Atta," but how much? Atta, the character is unadmirable and unlikeable, but understandable on his own terms. He's anal retentive, for real. (He hadn't pooped since May!?) He's also self-denying, self-flagellating, nearly self-defeating, passive aggressive, regular aggressive, humorless, mostly faithless, petty, unable to enjoy music, plagued by headaches and stomach quakes, sexually frustrated, afraid of women and butt ugly. He's an asshole, confused and belligerent. A Columbine killer all grown up. He's read that it might not be virgins you get in the afterlife, but raisins. He's not much of a true believer, but you have to figure he would be better off with the second option. Muhammad Atta would not know what to do with the ladies. (The raisins part, by the way, is a bit jolting. It's a light-hearted line of thought, atypical for the character. Still it underscores his latent disdain for the faithful.) Amis describes the man and the mission solemnly. The author's challenge isn't to humanize the monster, but to dissect it. To give innards to a creature many Americans might suspect contained merely bile or nothing at all inside. At the ever-looming end, when Atta flies the plane into the second tower, his death is neither glorious (not that he imagines it will be — that's for the fundamentalist suckers on his team) nor a relief. It's painted as a philosophical miscalculation, a sudden realization of the value of life in the tenth of a second between impact and death. Only then does the guy get it. Congratulations, asshole. Enjoy your raisins. An excellent story. Can't seem to find it online for ya. (Nearly related note: Google seems to have screwed with its algorithms or whatever, because it no longer appears to care whether I put a search phrase in quotes or not.)
