On weekends we drove to our town’s hidden creases: the parking lot behind the middle school to smoke pot, a house party for a college we didn’t attend.
Fish is skilled at using small twists to make every story its own micro-masterpiece.
No one talks about what Nana keeps in the basement.
You’re talking too much. Girls always talk too much. It’s why I never win the game.
Even then she was never a runner, so now here she is, running up this hill in an ugly raincoat toward a line of yipping boys who are just now cresting the peak
The tiniest detail is part of the bigger structure and goals for the story, always.
We waded to the lake in skirts and filled our best bone china—the water like a covenant, the taste like sugared silver.
There were also retired old farmers and their white-haired wives watching, chewing hot dogs and looking at me like I was something grave, offensive to all the hard work they’d known growing up. However, I felt like something meaningless, insubstantial.
I try to write something new at least 3 to 5 times a week, and I tell myself that it doesn’t have to be good.
It was the deepest secret I had to give, that love scared me when everyone else our age seemed to find such hope in it.