102.

Amelia wilted down the beach, bored with herself. She needed a change. She was sulky, sludgy. Perhaps, she thought, she should change her hair. She was almost positive her hair hurt. Yes, that would help. She stopped and looked out to sea, shading her eyes against the glitter on the water. Did she see...was that something moving towards her? A black spot on the horizon was steadily flinging itself in Amelia's direction. As it grew closer, she could almost make out...it was! It was a man's bowler hat! It was so sharply black that it looked like a hole in the air. As it sailed closer, straight and true towards Amelia's shapely head, she could feel her future changing. Everything would be different now! She would be dapper, instead of diaphanous. She would be decisive, incisive; she would snap her fingers at people and they would take notice. She would take charge, she would - suddenly there was a flash of golden fur and Amelia got a faceful of damp sand. Henry flung himself in front of her, and snapped the hat out of the air right in front of her. Landing on the sand with a soft plop! he tossed the hat in the air, and tapped it into place on his head with one jaunty paw. Damn that dog! His sartorial greed, his elastic hind legs.

100.

My 365 sentences project is a shared venture with @scrufflibrarian. For every day that I write something, he draws something and posts it on Instagram. Early on, we agreed that we'd swap a couple of days here and there, and today is our first. I drew something, and Phil wrote this beautiful piece.


The masks didn't bother the kids, they'd never known any different. A whole generation. But they bothered us, and a lot of others who could remember before. The seals would get wet, or a speck of dust or grit would get lodged in there, and before you knew it your neck would be red raw. You weren't supposed to loosen them, of course, for any reason at all, but sometimes it just felt too good not to break the rules; to slide your finger under the seal and rub the skin there while the warning tone beeped, steady as a metronome. 

But worst of all? Imagine never being able to truly look someone in the eye. The slight curve of the glass always distorted things. That bothered me like nothing else. 

That night, we lay side-by-side, and we each pulled the catch at the top of our spines until it clicked free. Together, we lifted our masks clear of our heads, and we finally got to really look at each other. We'd promised ourselves we would be quick, but we got lost in the looking, and the chirping of the alarms didn't seem quite so important any more.

day 20.

The receipt said "Your cashier was Laura." The man stops in the act of unpacking the bag of groceries, arrested by the anomaly of the past tense. He shifts the carton of eggs to his other hand, reaches absentmindedly for the bag of tomatoes. "Was Laura." Is she still Laura now that he's home, the paper bag torn at the top, the condensation from the bottle of milk starting to soften one corner?

He's arrested by a sudden vision of her identity existing only in transaction. His cashier was Laura. Maybe by now she's Tiffany, who is only in evidence for the four minutes it takes to ring up and package a roasted chicken, a box of bandaids, two bottles of wine, a cantaloupe, and a package of ballpoint pens. Before that, someone else's Marigold handled four pounds of roasting potatoes, a bar of baking chocolate, a jar of peanut butter, a package of sponges, a bottle of kitchen cleaner, and a box of tampons.

He thinks about Louisa, logging out of the register and eating her lunch in the breakroom: a Tupperware container of cold leftover spaghetti, carrot sticks and a Diet Coke. He thinks Louisa reads half a comic book, puts it back in her backpack, washes her hands.

Stephanie signs back into the register and sells a bag of balloons, paper streamers in pink, green and yellow, a birthday card, a box of cake mix, a tin of sprinkles and a pound of butter. The carton of eggs grows heavy on his arm, and he notices that one of the tomatoes is about to roll out of the bag. He opens the refrigerator and finishes putting his Laura groceries away.

day 7.

A very short Portland horror story.

Atticus shrieked at his cowering assistant, who clung desperately to the listing, creaking remains of Hawthorne Bridge, inches from the muscular and deadly tentacle crushing the metal. "You fool, you've doomed us all! I could have saved the city if only you'd brought a vegan sacrificial virgin. The monster is gluten free! GLUTEN FREE!"

the plague of doves, by louise erdrich

I first started reading Louise Erdrich when I was in college. Since then, I've read everything she's written - there are not many authors about whom I can make that claim - and each new novel is a pleasure I savor and anticipate. In her many years of writing, she's build an extensive and powerful family tree of interconnected characters, spanning more than a century of stories. Erdrich's approach involves first person narratives by several characters, divided into books within a single novel. It nearly always happens that when I am the most invested in a character, the most knit into their storyline, she switches to a new book and I experience a terrible, anguishing loss and sense of vertigo until I get acclimated to the new voice. And then it happens all over again. She knows best, though, and I'm never disappointed in the complete picture, once I can see it. The Plague of Doves, in the simplest terms, is an unsolved mystery that has affected the lives of the characters for decades. In whole, of course, it's much more than that and the causes and repercussions of the crime are layered and layered until they form the structure of an entire town. Erdrich's language is rich and melodic; I have the same pleasurable trust in her skill that I feel when I read Michael Chabon's work. For example: "...he opens the case and picks up his fiddle. As he tunes it, making such unfamiliar noise, the patients come out of their rooms or are attracted from down the corridor. The nurses venture from their station and stand, arms folded, chewing gum. Their mouths stop moving when he starts playing, and some of the patients sit down, right where they are, a couple of them on the floor, as if the music has cut through the big room like a scythe. After that first run of notes, the music gathers. Corwin plays a slow and pretty tune that makes people's eyes unfocus...they look like they might weep, but that changes quickly as Corwin picks up tempo and plucks out a lively jig that has a sense of humor in the phrasing. At this point, Warren leaves his wall and begins to walk around and around the room, faster and faster. The music ticks along in a jerky way, a Red River jig. Then something monstrous happens. All sounds merge for a moment in the belly of the violin and fill the room with distress. My throat fills. I jump up. Alarm strikes through us. Warren stops walking and backs up flat against the wall. But Corwin draws some note out of the chaos in his hands, and then draws it further up and up, further, until it is unbearable and at that very point where it might become a shriek, the note changes key a fraction and breaks into the most lucid sweetness." I think you should go find out what that's all about.

when the messenger is hot, by elizabeth crane

Leslie gave me When the Messenger is Hot a couple of years ago after she met Elizabeth Crane. Sixteen short stories of brittleness and strength, hope in spite of damage, each one funny and "never self-indulgent or whiny" (dailycandy.com). All of Crane's protagonists have a touch of the barking mad about them, and it's easy to identify with them. Graceful touches of magical realism somehow make her stories even more real. My favorite story is Privacy and Coffee, a delicate and beautiful urban fairy tale of isolation and coping with loss. Hilarious and lovely.

sunshine, by robin mckinley

Oh, Sunshine, how I love you. Robin McKinley's fantasy is a hugely satisfying read on two levels. Sunshine is a baker in a cafe that I devoutly wish was a real place, preferably right down the block. The book starts by laying the scene with cinnamon rolls and early morning work. The characters are wonderful and rich, and the talk of flour and butter and recipes and people is so absorbing that you forget you've just started reading a fantasy novel. And then vampire things happen, and that part is just as good.

The language is slipshod, and I didn't care one bit. I just read and read and read with great happiness until there wasn't any more book to read. Now I'm hoping for a sequel (I'm not sure if there's one planned or not - it could go either way). I don't want to give away any more plot than that: cinnamon rolls as big as your head, and vampires that are true to lore but not like any vampires I've ever read about before. It's wonderful. Read it.

the good fairies of new york, by martin millar

Three weeks before winter break started, I bought a stack of books in anticipation of being able to lie in a sunny spot on the floor and read all I wanted. The Good Fairies of New York was at the top of the stack. Partly because it's a petite wee thing, like its subjects, but also because it seemed like such a beguiling idea. Two fairies with torn kilts and brilliantly dyed hair escape from Scotland and come to New York, hoping to start the world's first radical Celtic punk band. What could be more charming?

I had planned to be swept off my feet, but although I enjoyed the book, it never really stole my heart. The characters, with the exception a wiry and lunatic homeless woman, all seemed two-dimensional to me. The plot got mired in a loop of repeated, frustrating action in the middle and didn't launch out of it for about 30 pages. The two main characters are hilarious, but I never quite overcame my urge to send them for a time out. Neil Gaiman wrote a generous and lovely introduction to the book, and while he claims to be mystified about Martin Millar's status as a slightly lesser author in the ranks of British fantasy novelists, I can see why that is. It didn't help that I was simultaneously reading a perfect short story of Gaiman's at the same time ("October in the Chair"), and so was reminded of his more masterful ability.

Still, it's not a pleasing read. The final scenes are so speedy and tie up all the gags so brilliantly, that I wasn't sorry. And I don't think you will be, either.