In our afternoon reading: thoughts on the fiction of Kelli Jo Ford, an interview with Laura van den Berg, and more.
Afternoon Bites: Kelby Losack Interviewed, Adapting “Native Son,” Norman Lock on Samuel Beckett, Édouard Louis, and More
In our afternoon reading: interviews with Kelby Losack and Michele Filgate, new writing from Norman Lock, and more.
Sunday Stories: “The House With the Plexiglas Frame”
The House With the Plexiglas Frame
by Martha Anne Toll
Lynette awoke to find her husband Jack sitting in a Plexiglas house in her brain. He was as clear to her as the blinking red 7:01 on the face of her digital clock. Just in case, she rolled over and checked again. He was not on his back, lips open, snoring. Gone. As if she needed evidence! Her head was throbbing, punctuated like snare drums rat-a-tat-tatting.
Morning Bites: A Brian Phillips Excerpt, Haruki Murakami On Film, Marian Womack Interviewed, Kelby Losack, and More
In our morning reading: an excerpt from Brian Phillips’s new book, an interview with Marian Womack, and much more.
Morning Bites: Terese Marie Mailhot, Bram Stoker Award Finalists, La Monte Young, and More
In our morning reading: reviews of works by Terese Marie Mailhot and La Monte Young, fiction by Martha Anne Toll, and more.
Morning Bites: Hermione Hoby, Literary Odysseys, Roxane Gay Nonfiction, Natalie Eilbert on Mina Loy, and More
In our morning reading: thoughts on Hermione Hoby’s new novel, Natalie Eilbert on the works of Mina Loy, and more.
Sunday Stories: “At the Ballet”
At the Ballet by Martha Anne Toll 1958 “We need her in white,” Mr. Yanakov said to the wardrobe mistress as he smoothed back his silver hair. “I’d like to see the exact line of her breasts. The skirt should cling to the ankle.” Katya Symanova stood in second position as her choreographer sculpted the length of her leg. “And the boy in black. Maybe with red trim. No…more red than black. Sputnik and the damn Soviets.” Tossing his […]
Sunday Stories: “Rain Song”
Rain Song by Martha Anne Toll He was spinning in front of the mirrors, humming, when she arrived. “Katya Symanova.” He walked toward her and picked up her chin. “I missed you.” Bumping his forehead against hers, he put his hand on her buttocks and pulled her in. “It’s not the same, being away,” he whispered. As if he had left under duress. Traversed Europe against his will. Suffered himself to sleep with the Prima Ballerinas in a host of […]