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”

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