I Will Never Hit Anyone Ever by Sarah Green
Amanda doesn’t know she’s seven poets
All of them suffocated by their own mothers’ handbags hiding gateway drugs
Illiterate screaming from a room down the hall and a man whose silhouette isn’t
symmetrical with the floor
paces aimless authority and shuts her up with this thumbs in the grape skin light of 5am
Little Boxes by Meredith Bastien
He told me his family raised him to believe in the magical powers of gemstones. Maybe that explains it all.
Sam was always more interesting than me, that’s for sure. He dropped out of college and delivered mail for a while. On his first day here, he said how much he liked working indoors for once. In one of the drawers in his desk, he had a box of rubies, sapphires, and topaz. He said they gave him emotional strength.
“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say,” I said on his last day.
“Is any of this new to you? Are any of these feelings new? Have you done all this before? Is this special for you?” he asked in the dark on my bed. Sam was the fucking worst because everything was new to him. His skin looked like it had never been bruised before—like his job was to bathe in milk.
“I mean…I’ve had sex before,” I said.
I could have said something really mean, but instead I just pretended to fall asleep. He hated working here, so he’s quitting to backpack through Europe. He didn’t like cubicles; only dead people should live in boxes, he’d say.
A Case of the Mondays by Sam Finer
“The El Paso County Medical Examiner stated that neither an autopsy nor toxicological tests were possible due to the nature of the accident and the condition of the remains.”
I saw some pictures of a man today –
or what used to be one, anyway.
He was filtered
through the turbine of a 737.
Dented blades ground bone to powder.
Burned crisps blasted out behind.
Scraps of red ringed around the bowl
with a lump of melted fat pooling
on the rim, probably dripping
onto the runway with the rest of him.
At least it was over fast.
The Internet, Female Narrative, and the Etch-a-Sketch of the Brain: An Interview with Emily Gould by Maria Paduano
You moved from writing memoir to fiction. What was that transition process for you, and what qualities of your memoir writing remains in your fiction writing?
EG: I stopped writing in the first person for a couple of years after And The Heart Says Whatever came out. Both the critical reaction [to first-person writing] and also the reaction from the people I love was really negative. Some of it was positive, but the negative stuff always stands out a lot more, especially with the way it affected my family. I felt sort of crippled. Even when I tried to write in the same mode, I didn’t have access to the same uninhibited way that I had been able to write before.
So I had to try something different, because otherwise I wasn’t going to be able to write anything. There was a solid year of me trying different things and kind of failing at all of them. It was kind of good in retrospect. It gave me perspective on the purpose of this kind of work. That’s when I started working on Emily Books—just because I had to do something and it had to be different. I also started writing in the third person as an exercise, and to trick myself. I was still writing about myself, but I was writing in third person and pretending like I wasn’t. That got very boring and kind of unsustainable, at which point I started to actually write fiction. It got to the point where I had a short draft and a really crappy draft. I decided to show it to Keith, my now husband, and I said, “I don’t want to know anything except if I should keep going with it.” He was like, “you should keep going.” He might have said that no matter what, but I did keep going, and it took me about four years.