Sarah smiled and said, ‘No Scott. I’m not cold. It’s something else. I’m in pain. I’m in horrible pain.’ SO SARAH WAS IN PAIN. Aren’t we all? And so I held her hand and sang No Woman No Cry. And she smiled. ‘O god no. Not fucking reggae.’
The same moment a girl I thought I loved forwarded me
a Powerpoint presentation entitled “Former Portland Trail Blazers
And Their Nicknames in High School.” Hmmm, okay.
Darius Miles: Free Hat. Zach Randolph: The Sixth Sense.
Clyde Drexler: Clyde The Wyde. It turns out he had a weight issue.
It turns out Skip To My Lou was really his porn name. And I saw
there everything he’d ever made. And of course, Kobe Bryant
hates women. It says so on a billboard in Biloxi as my dad drives
me to Mexico to live with my new family. I’ve been traded, he says.
"A story works when there’s momentum, life behind the words," Mary Miller told Matthew Salesses at The Rumpus. She needs that momentum for her new novel, The Last Days of California, about a family driving to California for the rapture. Also, Amy Butcher wrote about her favorite Millerisms at Hobart.
At night, I’d pray for God to make me a man, though I suspected that this was not something God would do. Something like that would have to be magic.
Did Virgil go to hell? No. Did Virginia Woolf go to Disney World? No, and it turns out that Orlando isn’t a place, but a dude. And did Truman Capote ever have breakfast at Tiffany’s? Yes, but the eggs Benedict was cold and the bloody marys were “bullshit.”
you think of all the things you wish
she was not: white crosses where
the road curves, not the reason
a man spends fifteen to twenty in Huntsville.
There was a meteor shower and he stood out in it trying to catch the passing light. There was a meteor shower and she stayed inside with tape over her eyes and mouth. There was a meteor shower and it rained down on all of the rooftops with shards of sparkle and hissing pops.
You should buy this book. Why? Because it’s beautiful, imaginative, and devastating. Because Nick Moran recommended it on this site before. Because it’s about a boy who can control flocks of birds. Because it’s violent and because it’s lovely. Because it’s on sale right now in an attractive combined volume. Because it contains passages like this one:
"So many buildings had already been destroyed, the solitary walls like ruins submerged in flames, the city like an ocean of flames. Circles of maniacs prayed in the middle of the streets, and flapped their arms like birds. Teenage conscripts lay trapped beneath rubble, crying for their mothers, while comrades tried to get them out. Cats hauled their kittens through the ruins, and vultures swooped to seize them; a donkey gave birth inside a restaurant where dogs sipped at puddles of champagne, and cut their paws on broken bottles. Explosions shook the Earth; Katherine hardly kept her balance. Cobblestones zoomed past her head. A girl tried to carry a newborn foal on her back. Whoever won the war would rule ruins, be the king of stones and buzzards. Fires hurled themselves against the sky, as if in rapture, the city a cathedral of flame, flames like penitents to the sky. An elderly man thought his beard was in flames, and slapped at his face as he ran, calling, It burns! It burns! Men writhed on spears which had been rammed into the ground in perfect rows, a field of pain. Women carried infants like footballs. Birds choked on smoke and died mid-flight, raining in a deathstorm."