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Sonora Review DFW Tribute
Sonora Review DFW Tribute
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multiple authors
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multiple authors
Sonora Review DFW Tribute
by
multiple authors
by
multiple authors
[...] The train was called Dying, it was the Dying Person Express, was what everybody but the smooth pink healthy doctors seemed to know. Solomon also knew, though he did not believe. The train was called Dying and the louder it got also the smaller in your field of true vision. It did not run you over like a penny on a track but shrank as it grew to be nothing but a roar that came from deep inside you, where there was only the growing heat of a boiling fight between polysyllables. Here was a train you didn't know was on you until it was too late to get free of the bright knife of the track, a knife that cuts you to show that the ear has been hearing itself, a knife whose thin side is also a mirror in which you see what you hear while it cuts what you are. While you sink and burn. A sickness not at all delicate was what she had.
Sophie, in bed, drowsed, and bits of memory came at her in the flashing strobes of predreams. Here's a shiny ice storm, two newlyweds in a new tract house in Cicero. Ice glittering gray in a crunchy March lawn, more wet ice falling out of a sky without color. Solomon watching it out a window, Sophie behind him with her arms around his thick waist, her hair a black waterfall down his arm, her chin on his shoulder, also watching. Pellets of dirty Cicero crystal hitting the hard lawn, beads bouncing and jumping hopping lively skittering ice. Solomon's voice, quiet, full of Silverfish dreams, his breath fogs a rainbow circle on the window as he stares at the jumping beads, whispers to himself grasshoppers grasshoppers grasshoppers. A young man she loves dreams life into ice while she plays with his ear.
just, beautiful
[...] feeling almost as though she and Solomon, or rather she-and-Solomon, will never really and truthfully die, no matter where or what they are. She feels through the promise of new pain and sickness of the stomach a brand-new sensation of cleanness and security, like a cold chill warmed, wrapped in a hot quilt on the lap of a mother who radiates a soft flame in gentle tones and tiny gestures of arrangement.
A thing that for her was magic Sophie was remembering as she drowsed in the orange light through the filmy window and her arm warmed with medicine. She felt the crackers in her stomach. It was 3:30 in the morning. Through a dream soaked the sound of the doorbell [...]
[...] I tell him S.S. child I seen love at angles you ass aint dreamed but I aint never seen no white man love a bitch like you love that tiless stick in that little metal band. My man get pissed off? He never get pissed off at Too Pretty. He just look in Too Prettys face with some bad eyes all aftershave blue and deep as his own head and ax me do I love my own self. And when I say shit whose black ass I gone love if not Too Pretty, my man say what it is, young Schwartz, he be callin my ass Schwartz, knock me out. He say that it rights there, Londell. The bitch be my own ass. [...]
the way he writes in Too Pretty's voice is weird, to say the least, but this passage at least is nice
Sonora Review Issue 55
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multiple authors
by
multiple authors
Sonora Review Issue 55
by
multiple authors
by
multiple authors
Sonora Review Issue 55
by
multiple authors
by
multiple authors
[...] a writer twenty years older who e-mailed daily love notes like exquisite novels in miniature but in the end said he was too old for her he had divorce kids he had moss growing on his antlers it would never work he was too old.
I really like the way this story is written
[...] He hopes, right now, that I am pregnant. He says I'm probably a month gone, he can tell by the flab around my belly button. I think maybe it's just flab, from eating donuts and lying around all day. But we're making money. We can book appointments.
funny and also sad indictment of the state of healthcare in America
"But you can adopt," she suggests. "You can babysit."
[...]
"We can't adopt," Dewey says. "We're poor. They'd never give us a baby."
it didn't really hit me until just now that if you're poor in America and have fertility problems, then you're pretty fucked if you want to have children
and while I don't agree that having children should be an important part of your life, that is what society tells us, and being excluded from that world can be heartbreaking (it's similar to having a job, really)
The wife's angry driving, the husband has noticed, becomes far worse when they must travel together on their way to marriage counseling. They must travel together on their way to marriage counseling because two weeks ago the husband wrecked their other car, and during this wreck both the husband and his passenger, a pale young woman from the city, sustained injuries that required immediate attention at the local hospital, which was not in fact very local at all, but quite a distance away from the hotel address that the husband had given his wife when they discussed his going to the business conference scheduled for that ill-fated weekend. And despite the relative ease with which the hospital staff treated the patients, for the two had responsibly belted themselves into the car for their first ever romantic drive, the difficulty of explaining to his wife these less than ideal circumstances caused the greatest injury of all.
I just like the way this paragraph is written (inspiration for MC? though he doesn't cheat on her)
He misses his wife. Not the wife that has lived with him for these past two weeks, and not the wife that became hysterical with the desire to have children, but the wife, his wife, the woman he met in the grocery store parking lot, who needed help changing a flat, the woman who rode in the ambulance with him after the car collapsed on his foot.
MC
The husband stands alone in the midst of all the children and, as he looks around, suddenly all the signs in the children's hands seem directed at him. STOP, the signs say in childish block letters, and this alarms him. Wait, he thinks, stop what? And how? Never mind stop being a coward, how did he first become one? His relief at avoiding any further confrontation gives way to the terrifying sense that he is too late to arrest the skidding disaster of his life, that he could not possibly know where to begin such an overwhelming endeavour.
Why did you do that, he says to the girl, after the taillights of his wife's car disappear around a bend in the road.
Now she has to forgive you, she says.
Isn't that what you wanted, she says.
I don't know anymore, he says.
i just like this writing style