Reasons I Don’t Own a Toaster, Part 1

When I moved into my apartment, my roommate had one. It was not just a toaster, but a toaster oven: luxurious, with a pull-out crumb tray and a custom-fit cookie sheet. It was spacious enough for a Brothers Grimm character to shove a couple children inside.

Excerpts from a Commencement Address I Will Never Be Asked to Give

The year I turned twenty-two, there was this popular musician — graduates, you won’t remember her, but your parents will — called Taylor Swift, who came out with a song called “22.” This struck everyone I knew as…

Hottest Summer on Record

On very hot days, we would pay five dollars to sit in a dark room and hear haunting music played on surround-sound speakers. They called them chill chambers. I wouldn’t get the chills from every song, but maybe some people did. I would put my hands on my damp hair, elbows out so my…

Learn to Take a Hint

Get out of here, says the library. Seriously, go somewhere else.

But I want to stay here, says Erson. I want to become so predictable that anyone could stalk me. I want my bones to bend slowly around this chair like steamed plywood; I want to grow thick wings of fat…

©

My sophomore year of high school, I was put in charge of the literary magazine by an English teacher whose classroom was some hybrid of an AA meeting and the outdoor stage of a summer Shakespeare festival. The magazine was called — without much creativity or pretension — The Final Draft, and about nine people knew of its…

The Least Sophisticated Machine In My Face

I don’t like seeing my bones outside of my body. That’s a sign that something is wrong, wrong, very wrong. Needling-out, trailing-guts wrong. Like a loose nail ripping a canvas bag open from the inside.

Rain Ear

I arrived in Seattle with ink stains on my hands, as if to say: I have come here to be a software developer, but I am not like the rest of you.

I guess pens do leak, after all. I wanted to stick my blue-blotched hands in someone’s face and tell them that my pen had blown up at cruising…

Let me tell you about my shoes.

One was named Erson and the other, Annalouisa. They were coated all over with brown fur — dense and a little bit spongey, like forest moss — though Annalouisa got bleached blonde if you left her in the sun too long. Their backs formed pockets just big enough for my feet…

Finals Week

Erson takes a breath on Sunday, and goes under.

For days, he can see only five inches past his face. His lungs are held open by c-clamps. He is not falling; he does not know if he has moved.