Archives

XRAY SPECS: Chafed Elbows (1966)

November 24, 2023

Isn’t that what every artist wants? To do the thing in the way they want to do it and have everyone they care about want that for them, too?

ELAINE by LJ Pemberton

November 22, 2023

The more of Elaine he had had, the less it felt like she belonged to him at all. Besides, he said, I have learned that even possession is a kind of disappointment.

LIFE AND ALL OF ITS VIOLENCE: An Interview with Alex Kazemi

November 17, 2023

A shocked reaction to this work really just makes my point about why I wrote this novel. It’s all so obvious, and I’m bored to death.

FARM HANDS by Mark Abdon

November 15, 2023

The rocking horse was hideous, though. It was the eyes. Wide open and vacant, set too high on that giant head. The foot-pegs had snapped off on Black Friday.

HIS FATE AS AN ARTIST: A Review of Uzodinma Okehi’s HOUSE OF HUNGER

November 10, 2023

I find that autofiction writers tend to have great senses of humor, because without one they’d be too horrified to tell the truth.

DOCTOR’S VISIT by Paula Gil-Ordoñez Gomez

November 8, 2023

While we wait for the fruits of deliberation, my mother asks me to get personal. I tell her I’ve been nightmaring about getting kidnapped and beating the captor up.

THAT IDEAL READER IS ME: An Interview with Andrew Weatherhead

November 3, 2023

You wouldn’t go back in time, but you would stay forever in the present moment. At least that’s how the dream went.

POWER OUTAGE by Zsófia Czakó; translated by Marietta Morry and Walter Burgess

November 1, 2023

She looked at that tree as if it were a murderer, and with hate in her eyes told me that in her dreams every night she sneaks over with an axe and chops it down with two strokes.

ACTUALITY IN ACTUALITY: An Interview with Chase Griffin

October 27, 2023

Christina was the John Swartzwelder and Kurt Vonnegut of this book – all of the funniest scenes and lines with the best comedic timing are hers.

SPILL by Christina D’Antoni

October 25, 2023

At night I dreamt of pelicans strung up in the oaks by their beaks, choked in Spanish moss, the storm’s winds blowing them down. Cars sliding through gasoline, smearing their bodies into the street.