Literature

Too often, popular fiction welcomes convenient last-minute solutions to the end of the world, even if the old cliché that things are darkest just before the dawn doesn’t match our lived experience. This misleading pattern lends itself well to epic-scale narratives largely reliant on a hero/villain dichotomy. Set the stage for total societal demise and
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My Slut Shaming Ghost Can Go to Hell Gwen E. Kirby Share article Here Preached His Last The first time I see the ghost of George Whitefield, I’m fucking my neighbor Karl. We’re going at it with more enthusiasm than finesse, the way you do when things are new. I lift my head, I’m going
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Time passes stunningly; perhaps never more so than in the last two years of the breakneck movement in global events, as well as the unending, stop-start pace of our collective anxiety and fear. Still even in normal years, you might wake up one day and find yourself past the age requirements for certain clubs, awards
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It did not weepdid not plead for mercynor complain.It fell silently,the tree. ~~~ My hands,yellow as its fleshdripping white blood,shuddering withthe deafening soundof the chainsaw.I’m the treeand the onewho kills it. ~~~ Its blood was white.We took away its rougeand the greenery of its leaves. ~~~ Before the adieu,it left me its shade,leaves and straws
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Weike Wang’s witty, moving new novel tells the story of Joan, a thirtysomething ICU doctor. The daughter of Chinese immigrants who have since returned to China, Joan is not only incredibly good at her job—she loves it, finding a deep sense of purpose in the long hours, grueling shifts, and day-to-day routine of her busy
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Good Boys and Girls Look Away from Death Elegy with New England Roadkill In good towns, good houses mourn what dies outside by closing windows. Bullfrog caught in a mower black-red. Driveway chalk gray-red. Tire-tracked doe red-red. Under a sycamore my throat whirls from pity to nausea. The suburban sky does nothing, sees less. Another
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The ’90s are back, as if they could ever truly peace out. Between Fear Street and Captain Marvel and the Alanis Morissette musical, the last mostly-offline decade is getting a gargantuan nostalgia polish. For my memoir Sticker—an exploration of my childhood in Charlottesville, Virginia via 20 stickers—I immersed myself in the sparkle of Lisa Frank
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Gwen Kirby’s collection Shit Cassandra Saw is structured around a handful of women lost to the annals of history, with a modern twist added. There are ancient warrior queens turned contract hitters, cross-dressing pirates, and lady duellists in a Seurat-like tableau.  Like its cursed prophetess namesake, Kirby’s collection is obsessed with the act of seeing
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