Sadie’s mother was tall and narrow, with a long braid down her back, black when Sadie was very little, then silvery, then silver, an instrument to measure time, an atomic clock. Her father had been tall, too, both he and the mother the tallest members of short families. In photographs and at reunions, they loomed. Everyone was happy when they had a short child: they’d decided to fit in after all. Sadie was small and plump and blonde, and when she was nine, her father died, and it was just the ... [READ MORE]
NOTEBOOK
The Vacant Field
I stood at the edge of a vacant field. Police who were not dressed as police were looking in the field for things that were dangerous. These were items left by a woman who was not dressed as a terrorist and who also was not one. She did wear a uniform. She was no longer there in the field. An officer picked up a wrench and threw it in my direction. I protested, “You threw that wrench right at me.” He didn’t respond. I repeated. “He threw that wrench right at me!” Nobody heard me. The ... [READ MORE]
Contest Closed: The 2021 Halifax Ranch Fiction Prize
Please Note: The deadline for the 2021 Halifax Ranch Fiction Prize is has passed. We’re thrilled to announce that our judge for this year’s Halifax Ranch Fiction Prize will be the brilliant R.O. Kwon, author of the bestselling novel, The Incendiaries, and coeditor of the groundbreaking new story anthology, Kink, published by Simon & Schuster in February 2021. There's more exciting news! This year, we've partnered with the Tasajillo Residency, an idyllic writing residency that ... [READ MORE]
She Said It Like She Meant It
There’s a cemetery on a mountainside in Kabul that’s running out of space. I read a New York Times piece about it years ago. A group of boys run grave maintenance, for a price, and one girl, six years old, works the mountainside with them. She brags like the boys about taking in mourners—too young to appreciate how much we mourners want to be taken in. She brags about what her father in Iran will bring her when he returns home. She prays for a Galaxy phone. I still think about her prayers and ... [READ MORE]
Bread Week
1. Your father calls you train wreck, as in, HEY, wake up, train wreck, bud, you’re falling asleep—beady, bootblack eyes narrowed on you from the Hemingway chair in the basement. Your mother is memorizing two-letter words, your baby boy squeezing the dog’s fur, and gentle, gentle, your wife is saying, practice gentle on the giraffe. I don’t very well like the taste of rubber, says Paul Hollywood––suaven, yeasty fellow in a collar on TV. Your son likes rubber. Rubber rings––Rings of ... [READ MORE]
Cat’s-Eye
At night I oil the door, whose hinges have been squeaking all year, and in the morning when I open it, they’re quiet. The rest is the same. I don’t wake anyone. The cat follows me into the bathroom. After I sit down, he jumps onto my lap, which is half-fleece, half-skin. Each paw, cold as a child’s nose, lands at a slightly different moment. He circles for a few beats, presses his paws into the tops of my thighs, an action that wakes and soothes me. Within seconds, his paws are warm. They ... [READ MORE]