The Silent History
The first major serialized, exploratory novel written and designed for iPad and iPhone, now available in print form from FSG.
"A compelling story about difference, rights and power." The Guardian
"Has the energy of an airport page-turner, with the coherence and ambition of a more earnest book." The Economist
"Here is a novel at once fun, clever and humane with the scope to outlast its hipper-than-thou origins." The Independent
"An ingenious variety of perspectives and locations that create a richly textured vision of a dystopian future." Publishers Weekly
"A landmark project that illuminates a possible future for e-book novels." LA Times
"Entirely revolutionary." Wired
Super Flat Times: Stories
"Beneath the busily mutating surface weirdness, the stories are rife with abandonment and loss." Village Voice
Full Metal Jhacket
She walked up to the driver’s side door and stood with her hands at her sides. The young man did not move. She saw, in his eyes, a tightness that might have been a well-concealed panic.
“I know what you have in there,” she said.
The Anchor Book of New American Short Stories, edited by Ben Marcus
The Apocalypse Reader, edited by Justin Taylor
He opened the box and looked at the rocket launcher. It looked like nothing, like a big black tube with a trigger and a stock. He picked up one of the rockets and hefted it in his palm. It was freezing cold in his hand. He breathed on it, which only made it wet.
The floor was covered with a jagged spread of magazines, Fangoria and Starlog and Mad and Black Belt and Rolling Stone, their covers half-torn, dog-eared, folded backwards, drawn on and cut up. Disemboweled action figures dangled from strings where the boys had hung and flogged them with mini souvenir baseball bats. A burned, melted Millennium Falcon sat precariously on the edge of a half-empty fish tank, which was furry with dark green algae.
I went upstairs and ate a Starburst on the bed.
Helping Aescha down the man-hole, I felt the weight of her body, the true weight--I had her by the hips, guiding her down the thin rails of the step ladder, and I could feel this other body going on inside her, this thing that would, birthed in glaring, nude stupidity, reach out for the world, for whoever in the immediate area gave the sincerest impression that they cared about it.
In The Believer
At night, our daughter stayed up late, sewing articles of clothing for the unicorn. “Do you think she’ll need mittens?” she would ask. “I don’t know. I don’t know about unicorns,” I said.
“Look at that yeti,” Murphy said instead, gesturing with his sandwich at The Yeti, who was assembling a window-washing nozzle on the soccer field at the bottom of the hill. The Yeti’s real name was Laura, but on the first day, when all the summer workers got put into teams, Murphy had called her The Yeti and that was the end of the name Laura for her.
The Believer online exclusive
Maybe I feel this way, though, only because my life has largely been about not doing things, and then finding ways to make the things I don’t do ridiculous or undesirable in order to destroy their seductive power.
The Believer online exclusive
This cannot possibly sound like a compliment, which it is, but the chaotic, fervent night had all the trappings of a public burning, wherein the Arcade Fire were the fierce, indignant victims, railing out against the injustice of their sentence as the crowd tossed whatever would burn into the conflagration.
The Believer Issue 1
I can’t tell which of the two is scarier—Paul Banks with his I’m-not-really-here-right-now stare or Carlos Dengler, dressed like an extra from The Hunger.