Father seldom came home for dinner. Now, he never es home, and Mother gets a phone call every evening during dinner.
Something pulls seagulls beneath the surface of the pond. I watch through my bedroom window.
My novel The Distance from Four Points is about a wealthy suburbanite who unexpectedly bees a small-town landlord after her husband’s tragic death. I based the small town of Four Points on my hometown in southwestern Pennsylvania, though Four Points is a little poorer, a little rougher, than its real-life counterpart.
That kid Amaan stood on the playground, pushing kids over as they ran past. Children fell like daisies under the scythe.
Ten years ago, on a bone-chilling winter night in New Jersey, I was rummaging on my husband’s nightstand for something new. Although admittedly bored and restless, I wasn’t seeking inspiration; I just wanted a good read. Randomly I settled on Richard Rhodes’ biography John James Audubon: The Making of an American, a Christmas gift from a daughter.
My mom used to pinch me so hard that her fingers would snap.
Beginning with Cannonballs, McCroskey Coupe’s second novel, revisits this concept of friendship as a plicated locus of relational politics. In this novel, she examines how racial inequality can upset the power balance in friendships to disastrous consequences, but she never entirely closes off the possibility for connection.
Rita Whitman had long ago reached the point of no return in her feelings about her younger siblings, resenting their noise and needs and clutter, unable to see them anymore as individual children. Despite this, her next-to-youngest brother Lenny began to seek out her attention.
Fernanda Melchor’s novel Hurricane Season is, in part, an exercise in rehumanizing the victims behind the numbers. In it, she creates a vivid portrait of the ways the intersection of different forms of violence — economic, environmental, obstetric, religious, and, above all, gendered — creates a storm system, trapping munities in its throes.
According to John Gardner, there are two stories: someone leaves home and a stranger es to town. I’m a first-generation immigrant through international adoption, so to some degree, I’ve lived both stories.
Back when the White Terror was ripping through Taipei and Tainan and dozens of other rising cities and villages that I had never set foot in, all the kids were scared that they would e home one afternoon and throw down their bookbags and baseball bats, and their fathers and grandfathers and big brothers who were intellectuals or had graduated from university would be gone…