Every now and then the old man would rock back on his heels. Every now and then.
You must listen intently to the sound in your ears. It’s a carrier signal.
March the seventeenth. Thinking about the body guard: got shot.
I spent two weeks in the hospital. I can remember getting there.
There’s a spider crawling on the counter.
I awake with a start, and then slip back to this time.
I stab the cherry tomato with my fork; trying hard to not let it shoot off the plate or squirt seeds at me.
People get killed. Are hollow. They come up to me like clear outlines with no insides, no complexity.
The dirt falls from the shovel all too slowly. I swear it doesn’t want to cover her body: it keeps slipping off to the edges.
People talking in the hotel bar. A couple maybe mid-sixties.
I wait here every day for somebody to come in.
And after the bar? What happened after the bar, he asked.
We stop at the next bench, only a few yards away and she sits gently.
On the edge of a main highway that runs through a small desert town.
This acts as some kind of nominal starting point. Because it was.
It’s a bit embarrassing. I’m worried about stretch marks on my back.
Maybe in the future she’d embody the pure-feminine-ideal or something, but right now Suraj had to explain just who Judy was and why she killed herself…
Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents tell, in the author’s words, a “cautionary tale”—which some have called prophetic, and some attribute to extraordinary powers of extrapolation—about a speculative version of America betwe …
We are reading Nobel Prize winner Gao Xinjiang’s novel Soul Mountain. Learn more »
https://player.vimeo.com/video/212201960?h=32754e9c6d&dnt=1&app_id=122963 There is a dedicated channel for Shantaram on InfiniteConversations.com. Readers are welcome and encouraged to expand the conversation with your own topics and …
Katherine Dunn, the original Freakmother, makes muses of monstrosity in her 1989 masterpiece, about a bizarrely geek-inspired, traveling circus family, born of the stale kernels of boxing reports and advice columns—a celebration of human adap …
Bahiyyih Nakhjavani’s poetic prose is a continuation of the Persian tradition of using lush, mystical imagery to awaken the soul. We hope you will join us as we take a journey inward with The Saddlebag.This was the third reading of Readers Underground …
This reading took place Dec 1, 2015–Jan 2, 2016, and was the very first Readers Underground (then #litgeeks book club) read together. It served as a beta test of our format, forum software, and other systems. The conversation continues in our forum.
Meet Sidney (aka the Sacred Scribe)—a PhD candidate in Physics with a problem in the paradoxical human realm of love. What does a love triangle look like in the fourth dimension? Quantum indeterminacy rules, as Sidney and her friends explore a bold new cosmology uniting Science and Spirituality, and Sidney’s “wave function” must decide between the primal magnetism of Bruno, her friendship with Alyzia, and the life of her mind and creative soul.
He was but a breath, a simple creation of some greater existence. Nothing implied, nothing necessary, nothing required. Just a breath. As was the face. And is the face. And always will be the face.
Did I dream it all? I guess I did. But then I see the card on the table. I pick it up. It feels real. TAKE THE ELEVATOR, it says. Did I?
These people in the church with him today have heard all those words over and over, they can’t really hear them any more. He remembers other words: If they do not listen to Moses and the Prophets, they will not be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.
The subject was discovered on a routine gravimetric exploration approximately one mile beneath the Earth’s surface in a small cavern rich in copper. Dwelling in complete darkness and surrounded by approximately 3500 urns of various shapes and sizes, the age of the subject remains indeterminate. Subsequent testing revealed the age of the urns to be approximately 500,000 years old.
He stood upon an old skull, and he crushed it under his dark heel. A snake was inside it, and its blood seeped into the ground. He stood in the crater where Gods went to die, the valley without light where a bloated Leviathan would rest upon the ground, and spears piercing its belly beneath dark clouds, the sun would turn away in time for it to rot and die. In its carcass, in its open bones a new God would form, a new rotten Beast to occupy the holy Throne….
Since the end of the Paleolithic Era, it is possible that we have been riding a long curve of descent, in which all things once transparent have become more and more opaque.