Selected Stories by Jennifer Greidus
Evolution of Everyday Life
Without taking off his shoes, socks, or trousers, Tom steps into the tub. It looks to me as if he wants to yank me up by my armpits. Instead, he sits down in the tub with me. His shoes, socks, and trousers are fully immersed. The water creeps up his t-shirt.
Amorim
I order, “You read. You spit. You undulate. You watch your blocking. If I wanted to look at your forearms, we’d be playing fucking squash. Peg, two words. No. Farting.” My head falls forward. The sermon has drained me. I chain light another brown cigarette, and extinguish the short one in a can of Sprite.
Permanent Black Burn
You said, "I'm going to Columbia." Fynn waved cigarette-stained fingers in dismissal. He sighed heavily, reliving a burden, it seemed, and then relieving it, too. He said, "I have something better for you to do. You call those Columbia folks. Tell them you have other plans."
Things That Shaped Him Thus
–Do you have anyone in your life that you’d break rules for? Lucas asks. –Not just arbitrary red-light-running? I mean the codes of civilizations. Did you ever just want to know someone, just one person, who was worth killing for?
Offa Rex, Pigeon Fancier
He blurs from matte to wet-waxen on a platform six feet above her head. As he unites with tight strings, done up for kinetic wealth, she touches the elbows, hair, spines, + thighs of the boys in the audience around her. Offa Rex, she sees, is an amorist if he is anything at all, + old holy Canterbury was sliver-cracked at conception.
Mr. Angel
While she was alive and in her thirties and forties, Ingrid had two wishes. One of them was to bowl a perfect game. A perfect game is 300, all strikes, plus the two extra strikes you get at the end for bowling all strikes in the previous frames. She never bowled a perfect game. Her second wish was to make love to Criss Angel. Mr Angel was a bit of a humdinger. A Casanova. He liked the ladies, and he liked them large.
Selected Short Stories by Jennifer Greidus
Evolution of Everyday Life
Without taking off his shoes, socks, or trousers, Tom steps into the tub. It looks to me as if he wants to yank me up by my armpits. Instead, he sits down in the tub with me. His shoes, socks, and trousers are fully immersed. The water creeps up his t-shirt.
Amorim
I order, “You read. You spit. You undulate. You watch your blocking. If I wanted to look at your forearms, we’d be playing fucking squash. Peg, two words. No. Farting.” My head falls forward. The sermon has drained me. I chain light another brown cigarette, and extinguish the short one in a can of Sprite.
Permanent Black Burn
You said, "I'm going to Columbia." Fynn waved cigarette-stained fingers in dismissal. He sighed heavily, reliving a burden, it seemed, and then relieving it, too. He said, "I have something better for you to do. You call those Columbia folks. Tell them you have other plans."
Things That Shaped Him Thus
–Do you have anyone in your life that you’d break rules for? Lucas asks. –Not just arbitrary red-light-running? I mean the codes of civilizations. Did you ever just want to know someone, just one person, who was worth killing for?
Offa Rex, Pigeon Fancier
He blurs from matte to wet-waxen on a platform six feet above her head. As he unites with tight strings, done up for kinetic wealth, she touches the elbows, hair, spines, + thighs of the boys in the audience around her. Offa Rex, she sees, is an amorist if he is anything at all, + old holy Canterbury was sliver-cracked at conception.
Mr. Angel
While she was alive and in her thirties and forties, Ingrid had two wishes. One of them was to bowl a perfect game. A perfect game is 300, all strikes, plus the two extra strikes you get at the end for bowling all strikes in the previous frames. She never bowled a perfect game. Her second wish was to make love to Criss Angel. Mr Angel was a bit of a humdinger. A Casanova. He liked the ladies, and he liked them large.
