We recently published David Galef’s striking “Noise.”

Here, we ask him two questions about his story:

1) I love the voice here — the character feels so absolutely real and wholly formed! How did you capture the personality of a narrator at this age?
As Flannery O’Connor once observed, “Anyone who survived childhood has enough material to write for the rest of his life.” We’ve all been through this period of existence. That said, like a good actor, a writer should be able to inhabit the consciousnesses of other people, at least for the duration of a narrative. Ever heard my impression of a Gen Z imitating a boomer trying to be Gen Z?

2) And I swear, I went to school with these same kids, even Zelda Zebra! Where did these characters come from?
“Noise” isn’t really autobiographical, but at school I knew some of these kids personally, I knew of others, and a couple I made up. Some of them are probably still there in one form or another. Bear in mind that I’m also a teacher, albeit at the college level. The people in my classroom are adults and should be treated as such, yet at times–.

We recently published Allison Field Bell’s brilliant “Could Have Said No.”

Here, we ask her two questions about her story:

1) This story is told as a series of “could haves,” but, really, they feel like “should haves.” What she should have done — a sadly familiar refrain. Is this the narrator’s song to herself, or is this something others are singing to her, or about her? Or a combination of the two?
I want to say that what matters here is the song to herself. That the “could-haves” are, in a strange way, an asserting of agency in a situation that is so clearly one in which agency is stripped away. I think what’s sad and overwhelmingly common is the assertion of “should have” from an external source. The implication being that if the narrator had just done something differently, the outcome itself would have been entirely different. This means, of course, that it is somehow her fault. This is the space the story inhabits: it is not an external source blaming her, but rather her own re-cataloging of events. A way to both berate herself and somehow take back control. Paradoxical? Absolutely. But when a person is already reliving every minutia of a night, why not reimagine it? Why not rewrite it?
Perhaps it goes without saying that this is written of my own experience. I don’t find it particularly helpful to feel bad for myself. To wallow. I don’t mean to say anything general about anyone else’s experience of sexual assault. This is simply my experience. The space that I inhabit with regard to the incident this is based on is complex and nuanced. Which doesn’t mean I think that there’s a gray area when it comes to assault. Assault is assault. But how my brain deals with that is all shades of gray. Is all trying to find my way through a dark dusty apple orchard. Is thinking again and again through that chain of events, is wondering what I could have done differently. Could have but didn’t.

2) The imagery of fruit in this piece is so compelling, the cherries with the whiskey, the lemon-yellow Caddie, the apple orchard the protagonist retreats to internally. What compelled you to use fruits specifically?
I love the idea of intention behind this, and I wish so much that I was conscious of it. I think the internal story logic took the reins, pulling me through the imagery of fruit. Fruit always has an interesting resonance because of our biblical associations. That forbidden fruit. Temptation, I suppose. Knowledge. I wonder if this is where the story pulled me. Knowledge is so powerful and so paralyzing. Sometimes we can know and not know what to do with our knowing. This is, I think, what I grapple with in this piece. I like thinking through theory fundamentals here: known knowns, known unknowns, unknown knowns, and unknown unknowns. This story, and maybe every story has all of these at play. But for the narrator, the real repercussions of knowledge are not expulsion from some garden but rather a trauma that shapes an entire life trajectory. That’s not on the page of course. That’s just life and how I’ve moved through it. I don’t like to believe in trauma as defining me. And yet, how can it not in some way shape the way I engage with the world? And yet, this is fiction. This is fiction. Still, ultimately, apples are on the page because I grew up in a town full of apple orchards. Cherries because I used to drink whiskey with cherries. Lemon because that was the color of his Cadillac.   

We recently published Donna Vorreyer’s insightful “I’m Not Sure What to Do Next.”

Here, we ask her two questions about her story:

1) I love, love, love how you capture that heartbroken feeling here, that want to go back to what you had before.That uncertainty of not answering the knocking at the door. Do you think the narrator will ever feel like they know what to do next again?
Honestly, I think the narrator already DOES know. Every action taken in the progression of the narrative makes it seem like the narrator will never get over the loss, even hints at the fact that perhaps the ex isn’t completely done with the relationship, either, But then, in the last line, I believe there is a decision. It would have been easy to let the ex in, but the narrator summons all her nerve and doesn’t do it. So even though there’s a total feeling of being unmoored here, I like to believe there’s an underlying strength through the anger and the sadness. The subordinate structure of “since” implies that the title could be the completing clause, but it also leaves open the possibility for a more certain way to move forward.

2) The narrator finds a looklike for their ex on a dating app! Such a great detail that really demonstrates such a human need here. Did the date have anything in common with the ex outside of looks (signs point to no, but maybe)?
I find it funny that I even came up with that detail since I have been with my husband for 44 years and have never even SEEN a dating app other than on television! But trying to replicate the qualities you’ve lost in someone you cared about is certainly not a new phenomenon, though the technology to facilitate it is. I like to think that looks are the only thing the two men shared, the only reason she went out with anyone at all to alleviate the loneliness that came from being suddenly single. 

We recently published Martyn Pedler’s explosive “Stretch.”

Here, we ask him two questions about his story:

1) This story starts in such a familiar way, with a narrative trick that we’ve all seen before: “you’ve got to keep the caller on the line so I can trace them.” But then it takes that idea and (my apologies) “stretches” it out. What was your inspiration for this piece?
I think a lot of my short stories begin as a joke: “What if you had to keep someone on the line – FOREVER?” But then I try to take that gag-like setup and shift it into another register, often by taking something to its logical extremes. Here, I was thinking about the familiarity that comes with long-term relationships. After a lifetime on the phone with someone, how would you feel about them? And how empty or numb would you feel if they were suddenly gone?

2) And in the end, our characters (except for the narrator, who has died offscreen) have had a connection for a very long time. Long enough that there’s only certain positions that don’t hurt their hips, long enough that their ears feel “hot and naked” without the weight of the phone. And in the end …. Do you think the caller even remembers why he had a bomb anymore?That’s a good question! I’m also a screenwriter, and so I’m very used to notes about “raising the stakes”. I liked the notion that there’s this unexploded bomb ticking away in the background of the whole story. The trick, I guess, is that it seems like the characters forget the bomb is there, just like (hopefully) the reader does too. When ‘you’ finally ask about the bomb, is it a surprise to you that you’re asking? Or had you been waiting all along to build up enough intimacy to get the truth? In the end, it comes too late to matter.

We recently published K.A. Polzin’s brilliant “A Metaphor for Something.”

Here, we ask K.A. two questions about the story:

1) I love how current this story is, how now, how powerful. This could be happening anywhere, to anyone. It is happening everywhere, to everyone! How do you picture your narrators?
As the story is partly autobiographical – I have felt everything the narrator feels, at least on my worst days – I picture the narrator as someone not unlike me, speaking for both themself and their partner (or family). I’ve exaggerated the situations and emotions, so perhaps the narrator is someone like me after a night of terrible sleep.

2) “On the TV, the program never changes.” This paragraph, for me, is particularly striking — it shows the things we choose to “entertain” ourselves with for the pathetic reality they are. Why do you think so much of our media, our entertainment, takes this form?
As a teenager, I loved watching The Love Boat. I knew it was silly, but that was part of its power. Formulaic TV shows and movies are comforting, relaxing. They can be a balm for those with stressful, difficult lives, of which there may be more now than ever. I have found comfort in them in difficult times. But they are passive experiences – they are easy, too easy – whereas a great book or film is an active, meaning-making experience. But one must first have the mental space to do some work.

We recently published Justine Sweeney’s devastating “Two days after I died.”

Here, we ask her two questions about her story:

1) The reader never learns how the narrator died — it could be an accident, illness, something else — and yet the story stands whole without that detail. But still: do you have an idea of what happened?
I wrote the story last summer when I was faced with a serious health diagnosis and my mind kept circling ideas of mortality and people’s reactions to illness and death. But I wanted to leave the illness ambiguous so that a wide range of readers could identify with this situation.

2) The story isn’t about the narrator, really, but about this woman who “mourns” her so performatively and about her sister, who is so changed by her death. We don’t learn how the narrator feels watching her sister’s reaction, but we can imagine how heartbreaking it must be. Do you think seeing her sister’s pain is harder for her than her own death?
I think social media adds a surreal performative aspect to the experience of grief, like when a celebrity dies and everyone’s posting about it. Someone who’s lost someone close might want to be very private with their experiences, and, thinking about mortality like I was, I wanted to explore what it would be like to be going through that for real and have someone else acting out this social media grief right in front of them, making it all feel worse. I think it is incredibly hard to watch someone you love being ill and suffering, because you feel completely powerless, so the situation with the social media post represented that sense of powerlessness on the sister’s part.

We recently published Sagar Nair’s brilliant “Not One of Us.”

Here, we ask him two questions about his story:

1) I love stories like this, where the narrator(s) reveal much more about themselves than the person they are presumably talking about (and judging!). Do you think the characters here realize how much they are showing of themselves? Do you think they would care?
Such an interesting question. I think the narrators are unbothered by what they show of themselves, because they believe they are right. They have full conviction in their unjustified disgust. They believe what they say makes them look good, but that is for the reader to decide. Also, I think the narrators hide behind the first-person plural POV to shield themselves from negative perceptions. They speak as a collective to appear valid and authoritative, despite little justification for their views.  

2) Isabel seems like such an amazing person! But do you think she is hoping to wear down her neighbors with kindness? Or does she, as they believe, harbor some sinister intent behind her “giraffe eyes”?
Ultimately, I want readers to decide if they believe the narrators and if Isabel has sinister intentions. Personally, I think Isabel is trying to appease the narrators and prove her goodness through hyper-politeness. Sadly, there is no winning for Isabel—whether she’s rude or polite, she cannot change their minds and they will twist all her actions to support their beliefs. Isabel’s character demonstrates the psychology of a scapegoat. Some scapegoats resist the irrational blame, whereas others turn to respectability and the illusion that one can control what others think. Isabel is trying to prove her right to exist to people who are not listening.

We recently published Emily Rinkema’s devastating “Things That Don’t Matter.”

Here, we ask her two questions about her story:

1) So much of this story is told through nonverbal cues and gestures — there’s such a feeling of the narrator understanding and knowing, and yet being unknown to others herself. How correct do you think her interpretations are here?
I wanted to capture the feeling of being in a social setting and being just a hair’s breadth away from losing it–that feeling when you aren’t sure whether it’s just you or whether your interpretations are actually true–when you know you have to keep that smile plastered on your face or you’ll be crying into your dinner plate in front of everyone. Going through perimenopause has made this feeling all the more resonant for me–I have learned that I can’t always trust my own emotions, that I need to give myself a few beats (or 24 hours!) to decide whether I feel as strongly about something as I do in the moment. Which feels dangerous, not to be able to trust myself, my perception, my intuition.

The narrator here is on that edge, and she definitely doesn’t feel heard or seen by her husband (whom she imagines is truly listening to Manny’s wife), or even by Manny, who has chosen her as a confidante but knows nothing about her in return. And as she maintains control of the party, she is losing control of herself…but not so much that she isn’t able to sense that and disappear upstairs! 

2) And so much of this story is also the keeping up of pretenses, the look of perfection and correctness. In the end, the narrator seems to be unable to cope, but … will her lasagna burn? Will she make it back downstairs to maintain as much of her mask as possible? Or is she going to let it all burn down?
I wanted there to be some ambiguity, since I’m not sure she knows whether she’ll be able to pull it together or not. And the story ends with her looking in the mirror, seeing herself since she thinks no one else sees her. I think the sting of the plucking (an ultimate pretense!) is a way to feel there, to feel present and real, if that makes sense. Ultimately, I want her to let it all burn down, but I don’t think she will. The question is, will she have eyebrows left when she makes it back downstairs!

We recently published Stephanie Frazee’s miraculous “A Glorious and Unknown Place.”

Here, we ask her two questions about her story:

1) I love how you take the Hans Christian Andersen idea of the soulless mermaid (I mean, really, his stories were ALL Christian allegories, weren’t they!) and turn her into something that both takes and gives. Do you think there is a part of your mermaid that longs for a soul like the Andersen version?
Absolutely! The mermaid’s longing for a soul has gotten lost in the modern versions of the story, whereas it’s the main driver of her actions, and gives poignancy to the resolution of her relationship with the prince, in the Andersen version. In this story, she believes the boys have what is inaccessible and unknowable to her and that she has found a way of getting closer to it. I did not set out to write a story about her longing for a soul, but it went there pretty quickly. I mean, what higher stakes can there be for a character? 

2) The boys that come to her — they lose their lives but they gain eternity. Or so the mermaid believes. Is this really an act of so-called generosity? Or is there jealousy at play here?
There is totally jealousy at play, among other things. In the Andersen version, the mermaid has a statue of a boy in her garden. That was the start of this story: how might she have gotten the statue (Andersen tells us it was a shipwreck, but what else might have happened?), and why is it so special to her? What does it mean to love something that can’t love you back, and alternatively, can’t reject you or leave or tell you how it feels at all? That is possession, not love. However, I think the mermaid believes her actions come from a place of love, and that takes the story to an even darker place. 

We recently published Sudha Subramanian’s brilliant “It’s Not So Bad That Appa Is Dead.”

Here, we ask her two questions about her story:

1) I love the lie of the title. I love that it is a lie that the narrator is trying to convince themself of. I love how the reader sees through the lie almost instantly. Does the narrator see through the lie as well?
This is such a great question. The narrator tries to believe the lie and doesn’t want to see through it until they see through the inevitable truth. In a way, the unwillingness, the conviction, helps in coping with grief, yet it falls apart like in this piece towards the end.

2) The parent-child relationship here is so relatable and so beautiful. Thank you for sharing it with us! The distance between them, and yet the closeness — is that something the narrator holds onto?
I think a parent-child relationship is always this – distance and closeness. Although we prefer to hold on to the closeness, the distance (like in this piece) can make the complexity of relationships more endearing.