There is legend of a human who once enjoyed puberty. This is not that legend.
(A version of this story was originally published by Picador in the anthology, The Book of Men, the proceeds of which benefit Narrative4, a non-profit organization that uses story-exchanges to cultivate empathy and break barriers. )
In this country, we are drowning in false choices and sclerotic deliciousness. This week’s story mines our demise for several minutes of uproarious hijinks.
None of our stories are the same, except for the ending.
Duke Ellington should be on the dollar bill by now. That's not what this story is about, however. It's about making the most of a limited dating pool and life’s cruel bio-mechanical disconnections.
Do all parking lots connect eventually?
A lot of stuff happens, and it’s all bad.
There are times when we must overcome the visual so that we might better focus on the victual.
Our lives are only moments shuffled inside our heads while we die. This episode definitely proves whatever that last sentence means, probably.
If you don't promise to keep a journal today nobody will believe that we once wore mittens in November.
Sometimes it is difficult to avoid creative differences when making art with your preferred medical professional.
Some children are brats and their parents are brats too. Brat was also the name of a short lived automobile, but that is a fact entirely unrelated to this story.
Because we are stuck in a linear understanding of our experience, we insist, in the moment, that Betamax is the future of home video.
Is anything really true anymore? Can extraterrestrials save us? Is dad really dad?
In the peak of mosquito season we are often susceptible to unorthodox, and frankly risky, means of itch reduction. Be careful out there, listeners!
It’s important to remember, but easy to forget, that we don’t all feel the same way about shopping.
(This story first appeared in issue 3.1 of The Maine Review. )
What if our snack food diets merged with our erratic weather systems all while the corporatocracy finally admitted they didn’t give a damn about the twins’ medical bills?
Any story set at the DMV is going to involve an uncomfortable and frustrating waiting period. You might want to bring along something to read for this one, or a gripping podcast.
The airport waiting area is a an ecosystem where manufactured breezes ruffle our comatose feathers.
You know we know it’s bad, and we know more or less why it’s bad, but only because we can’t imagine how bad it really is, though we all know it’s really bad, but not in ways we can explain, because it’s too bad to untangle. But it's definitely bad.
Best friends are the best. It's not up for debate.