Fiction of the Day
The House with the Mezzanine
By Dan Bevacqua
I was supposed to middle-man these people into a situation of potential annoyance—if not harassment? Me? The poor kid from Jersey?
I was supposed to middle-man these people into a situation of potential annoyance—if not harassment? Me? The poor kid from Jersey?
It is very cold outside, though less so inside the car, it seems, with the kufiyya lying across the dashboard, forming a coiled snake ready to strike.
They checked in at the hotel that A. called in his head Hotel Auschwitz, then he spent twenty minutes shitting.
There is a nothing sound that rooms make that is easier to hear when a room is empty.
At first, the descriptor “Unemployed, Age 34” had sounded almost like a criminal charge, but I’d gotten used to it soon enough.
“I said, you know, thank goodness it’s not autism,” Jenny said, so exuberantly that it took Marion a moment to register the joke.
On day fifty-one, a person on the radio said, For many Americans, this is the defining crisis of our lives, but all I had done that day was eat sugared mango slices and write a list.
There’s no end to the woes that mothers face come summer vacation.
When I learned of his transgression I threw myself into Dante and Shakespeare, seeking to understand the world that I had failed to see.
When people start acting stupid I usually stop reading. Those people aren’t ready to be characters yet.
Heft of fur and polyester, heft of muscle and blood. Noises commingled, that syncing of bodies real and otherwise.