Fiction of the Day
Derrida in Lahore
By Julien Columeau
On the cold night of November 24, 1997, before Shahid disappeared forever, I thought I was his closest friend, his only confidant.
On the cold night of November 24, 1997, before Shahid disappeared forever, I thought I was his closest friend, his only confidant.
On an inside day in November, a smoke and cider day, Burton Glass found a white greasy kiss stamped against the black post of the sunporch he was painting at the shore, off-season in Rehobeth.
It pleased him. Look at that, he said.
Like so much brain damage, the first symptoms that mine produced were almost indistinguishable from normal behavior.
The rue Lapin slinks like a pickpocket behind the back of the Théâtre Larache, joining the boulevard Denfert-Rocherau at the rue Saint-Anne. It is a narrow street, without distinction or interest
We lived frugally. If somebody was coming to the house, my mother moved the plastic gallon jugs of milk to the front of the refrigerator and filled the other shelves with vegetables from the crisper. The only meal my mother did not cook herself was our Saturday lunch.
When our martinis arrived we ate the olives first, plucking them from their toothpicks with our lips pulled back from our teeth, like horses.
Three times a year, the National Public Radio show Weekends on All Things Considered holds a fiction contest in which listeners from across the country submit stories that can be read aloud in less than three minutes.
Almost every morning lately the beginning of light, rainy day or fair, would fall upon the eyelids flatly, tiredly, and the arms and legs like blocks of stone and the ache deep in the bones for the secret of comfort buried inside the unsolicitous mattress
In 1951 you couldn’t get us to talk politics. Ball players then would just as soon talk bed wetting as talk politics. Tweener Jordan brought up the H-bomb one seventh inning, sitting there tarring
I am Oberleutnant Heini Opitz of Test-Commando 16 and this is not a war story. It's the story of a lunatic revolution-the inmates with Bedlam's keys-and the boys all call me Pitz. We fly (fly? ride!) the Messerschmitt
We stop in a place called Smith’s in Paso Robles and order turkey-gumbo soup and lemon-meringue pie with black coffee. This ensemble somehow fits together although it sounds as though