In our afternoon reading: thoughts on Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi’s new novel, new writing by Lynn Steger Strong, and more.
Sirens by Brenna Ehrlich The ice was just thick enough for skipping stones, so Rose chucked a rock at the sheet of cold. It skittered across the surface, making a pleasing “plink plink plink” sound — until it reached a hole and splashed down. The moon shimmered in the circle of water like an opal in a pile of quartz.
In our afternoon reading: interviews with Molly Brodak and Melissa Yancy, fiction from Brenna Ehrlich, and more.
Take Me to the Boneyard by Brenna Ehrlich Adam had missed her. Or he supposed he did. Or he was just bored. But she was here now, anyway. She was sitting on a rusted folding chair in his studio and she was looking at his art. “This one represents something about lost time,” Adam said slowly, gesticulating a bit wildly at a crushed pocket watch glued to a piece of wood. It hung on the wall over a melted Bill […]
Your With the Angles Now by Brenna Ehrlich The things that people write on a person’s Facebook page after they die – they sound way too much like the things people write in your yearbook. They do. Like, “You were an amazing friend. RIP” (“You’re an amazing friend! LYLAS!”). “I’ll miss you, buddy. See you on the other side.” (“See you next year!”) “You’re with the angles now.” Well, that one you probably wouldn’t find in any yearbook – but […]
Morning Bites: Dorothea Lasky, Lidia Yuknavitch’s Writing, Tom Williams Interviewed, Revisiting “The Swimmer,” and More
In our Thursday morning reading: interviews with Dorothea Lasky, Brenna Ehrlich, and Tom Williams; a playlist from Brandon Hobson; and much more.
Morning Bites: Didion on Film, Jeff Jackson’s Recommendations, Cixin Liu, Tacocat Interviewed, and More
In our morning reading: Joan Didion on film, sneaker history explored, an interview with Tacocat, H.P. Lovecraft’s problematic legacy, and more.
Groupie Murder Cult by Brenna Ehrlich It really wasn’t that out-there that he had noticed her, swaying in the front row in a leather jacket, pin-up dress and black – raven-black, pitch-as-night-filled-with-ravens black – hair. It really wasn’t that out-there that after he took out his switchblade and drew it across his bare, tattooed chest, she was the one whose forehead he marked with a bloody cross, before throwing his red-stained fingers across his six-string and wailing into the mic […]