In the West, we have always prepared for the big one. We affixed bookcases and dressers to the walls, Velcro, L-brackets, anchors butterflied behind the sheetrock. In the guts of the houses where we could not see, hurricane straps butted joists to larger timber, the bracket named for another disaster but effective also for ours….
We are the children of Cavan. Do you know of that place? It is a border town, betwixt and between, a place of cross roads— and yet strangely few pass by there. The land around is low and sodden, a place of scrub and straggly pines, lanes and paths leading nowhere. The damp comes up…
In fiction, our winner is Ruby Todd for her story “Creation.” Of her story, fiction judge Ottessa Moshfegh said, “This exquisite story about a struggling sculptor was obviously penned by a seasoned conjurer of art and prose. It rings with the truth and precision of memoir, and sings in the peculiarities of magically timed fiction…
When Luce gets home, the girl is standing in her living room. She looks about thirty, raw and full of want. “You must be Luce,” the girl says, wheeling around. Jangling energy flies off her in every direction. She’s been sent up from a magazine in the city. Luce has agreed the girl can stay…
She had a bed that came out of her wall. Every night, she made it appear and every morning, she made it disappear. “I never knew anyone like you,” he told her the first time he watched the magic trick. “What, a grown woman with a murphy bed? You think when I was your age…
The sign is nailed to a two-by-four, part of a raw wood skeleton built around the door. In the last few minutes the snow has brightened, and the barbed wire fencing and the trees on the horizon scrawl out messages—mainly that any notions I might’ve had are wrong here. I walk past a dog in…
Charley sponges off the dinner dishes—hers and Karim’s, the girl’s, the Goat’s—then slots them one by one into the rack to drip. All the while staring straight ahead through her reflection into the night. Despite the heat, unusual for Paris in late October, she keeps the windows latched against police sirens and Maghrebi rap and…
Just before noon on a Friday that is, better late than never, the first perfect day of spring, a bell on the Commons starts to ring. For years this bell had been bolted inside an Erie & Lackawanna train engine, riding the rails along the Cuyahoga River, less than a mile to the west of…
“It is the only way to end poverty,” says El Presidente. I look at the land below us and yearn for green and blue, instead of this ash gray, dust brown. A hazy sun. My eyes burn. I have not been home for going on two hundred days. This morning, I looked in the mirror…
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