[Fiction] The life of a supposed hedonist:
Kromer knew it was also his job, what he was a clerk at. The shop was called Sex Machines. There Kromer retailed chunky purple phalluses, vials of space-age lubricant, silver balls and beads for insertion, latex dolphins with oscillating beaks. The shop’s owner was a maven of Second Avenue, a hedgehog-like, grubby genius of street-level commerce. The possessor of a block of storefronts, his specialty lay in preëmpting hipster entrepreneurship with his own fake-indigenous coffee shops, video-rental emporiums, and, finally, the erotic boutique.
“The Porn Critic.” — Jonathan Lethem, The New Yorker
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Longreads Pick
[Fiction] The life of a supposed hedonist:
“Kromer knew it was also his job, what he was a clerk at. The shop was called Sex Machines. There Kromer retailed chunky purple phalluses, vials of space-age lubricant, silver balls and beads for insertion, latex dolphins with oscillating beaks. The shop’s owner was a maven of Second Avenue, a hedgehog-like, grubby genius of street-level commerce. The possessor of a block of storefronts, his specialty lay in preëmpting hipster entrepreneurship with his own fake-indigenous coffee shops, video-rental emporiums, and, finally, the erotic boutique.”
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Published: Apr 9, 2012
Length: 15 minutes (3,764 words)
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[National Magazine Awards finalist] [Fiction] A honeymoon set in Eastern Europe in the 1970s:
Since the beginning of their honeymoon, whenever something went wrong she had been eager to remind him. Is this enough of an adventure for you? Aren’t adventures fun? But here they were, in Bucharest, sitting on the edge of a fountain and looking at an elegant, dormered building that could have been in Paris except for the soldiers standing guard in ill-fitting green uniforms.
“La Moretta.” — Maggie Shipstead, VQR
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Longreads Pick
[National Magazine Awards finalist] [Fiction] A honeymoon set in Eastern Europe in the 1970s:
“Since the beginning of their honeymoon, whenever something went wrong she had been eager to remind him. Is this enough of an adventure for you? Aren’t adventures fun? But here they were, in Bucharest, sitting on the edge of a fountain and looking at an elegant, dormered building that could have been in Paris except for the soldiers standing guard in ill-fitting green uniforms.”
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Published: Sep 1, 2011
Length: 33 minutes (8,259 words)
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[National Magazine Awards Finalist] [Fiction] A tattoo artist meets a middle-aged mom:
The woman stood in the doorway, twisting her head at odd angles like a goddamn owl to see our designs on the walls, before walking up to the counter.
‘Sure you’re in the right place?,’ I asked. ‘This ain’t no nail salon.’
‘Is Nate here?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘what’s up?’
‘Marion,’ she said, reaching her hand over the counter. I took it and shook. ‘You came highly recommended by my niece, Janice. You tattooed a rose on her hip.’
She looked at me like she expected me to remember. Shit, if I could remember every rose I tattooed on some girl’s hip, I’d be in the Guinness World Records for the best fuckin’ memory.
“Scars.” — Sarah Turcotte, The Atlantic
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Longreads Pick
[National Magazine Awards Finalist] [Fiction] A tattoo artist meets a middle-aged mom:
“The woman stood in the doorway, twisting her head at odd angles like a goddamn owl to see our designs on the walls, before walking up to the counter.
“‘Sure you’re in the right place?,’ I asked. ‘This ain’t no nail salon.’
“‘Is Nate here?’
“‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘what’s up?’
“‘Marion,’ she said, reaching her hand over the counter. I took it and shook. ‘You came highly recommended by my niece, Janice. You tattooed a rose on her hip.’
“She looked at me like she expected me to remember. Shit, if I could remember every rose I tattooed on some girl’s hip, I’d be in the Guinness World Records for the best fuckin’ memory.”
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Published: Aug 1, 2011
Length: 19 minutes (4,759 words)
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Longreads Pick
See a collection of longreads from the 2012 Ellies, including stories from GQ, Rolling Stone, The New York Times Magazine, plus fiction from The Atlantic, VQR and more.
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[Fiction] An elderly woman encounters her past at her nursing home:
A beautiful day—even though Elise can smell chickens from the poultry complex down the road and exhaust from the interstate, even though the pear trees in this so-called orchard bear no fruit. The mums are in bloom. Bees glitter above the beds. And a skinny man comes toward her, showing off his mastery of the strap-on LIMBs.
‘Elise.’ He squints at her. ‘You still got it. Prettiest girl at Eden Village.’
She flashes her dentures but says nothing.
“LIMBs.” — Julia Elliott, Tin House
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