Containing over two hundred and thirty exceedingly short works of fiction, with very few exceeding a page in length and most no longer than a paragraph, Keith consistently manages to make each story distinctive and fully formed.
Merging crime, espionage, and absurdist fiction, French author Pierre Mac Orlan (born Pierre Dumarchey in 1882)—a prolific writer of adventure novels, erotica, songs, essays, and memoirs—constructs a compelling novel of intrigue set in the murky shadows of Europe in the 1920s and 1930s.
Katharine Haake provides a palliative for the shortage of thoughtful apocalyptic literature with Assumptions We Might Make About the Postworld, a collection of eleven short stories, each of which explores the end of things—even if just symbolically—as a way to meditate on themes of loss and absence.
Largely ominous and somber in tone, the concise, intelligent fiction contained in Sleeping Dragons will move, intrigue, and not fade quickly from memory.
At its most basic level, Sonata is a thought experiment. It asks: What if Kafka were brought back to life and saw the late-stage capitalism whose arrival he presaged?
It’s easy to slip into In the Cemetery of the Orange Trees, but not easy to resurface. The meanings and emotive metaphors linger, a slow burn that brings you face to face with the injustices imposed on a people impossible to forget.
She wanted to be someone normal. Watch television until noon on the weekends. Practice soccer in the backyard so she could finally make the B team. Invite a friend over and make a slip and slide with the old tarp in the basement.
With The Lost Daughter Collective, Lindsey Drager positions herself next to innovative writers like Rikki Ducornet, Aimee Bender, and Donald Barthelme, who have used fables and folktales to achieve an ineffable effect.
Parker ably brings us close to the beauty and meaning in ordinary people and simple lives.
When I moved into my dorm freshman year, I brought my mother’s box of Daylight Savings memorabilia with me and hid it under my bed. I loaded those CDs onto iTunes on my computer and listened to them over and over with my headphones plugged in, trying to figure out some clue to who my mother had been. The music revealed nothing; it was empty, meaningless pop, and I could not understand why she had been such a fan. I desperately wanted to know her in the way a daughter should grow to know her mother, but I’d only known her as a little girl who looked admiringly at the person who fed and burped me, who sang me to sleep.