Fiction

You had to knock thrice slowly on the door’s edge, said Grandma, and if she didn’t reply, that meant she didn’t want you to come inside.

There is, however, an urgency. And, urgently, she tells you stories.

“You know what I mean. It really just makes you think about the shortness of life and shit.”

So by week four of my fellowship, I shifted my plan to write a piece of “autofiction” in which an Australian named Simon dates an Amazon employee.

Andrea tells me her hallucinations are getting worse, more frequent, more frightening, though she doesn’t elaborate on how.

Dear Committee, Please consider my application for admission under your new Charles Schwab Playing Field Initiative, which I believe I qualify for in double spades.

There’s something painful about being here in San Francisco. I can’t say what. I’m always losing my words.

You make stuff up all the time. You excel in subjects that require making stuff up, like English composition and moral science.

It was like holding a lighter above a pool of gas. Something was on the verge of rupture.