The New Yorker Novella
Long-form fiction.
“Server”
It was empty when I logged in. I’d been off it since Vic died, four years ago.
“The Bicycle Accident”
“Of course, Arlette understood, this was not a tragedy. Tragedy would be a broken neck or spine. Paralysis for life. A coma.”
“Muscle”
“It’s time to turn up the heat a little bit more. My boys are getting bored, and that’s not good for their appetite or their temper.”
“What’s the Time, Mr. Wolf?”
“He got out of the car, closing his door quietly, and crept through the woods toward the brick house.”
“Many a Little Makes”
“Why was Bree the bad apple? The one needing to be banished? How could a girl of fourteen be the one held responsible?”
“Mother Nut”
“I told her about how there were these special trees in secret places, and no one knew how they could survive. And I tried not to make a thing out of saying—but did say—‘I’ve seen one, but I can’t tell you where it is.’ ”
“This Is Pleasure”
“At first, the suit was not against me but against the publishing house, and all she wanted was a payment, which the company was prepared to make—as long as she kept quiet about her complaints.”
