The Best American Short Stories 2012

The Best American Short Stories 2012

Language: English

Pages: 297

ISBN: 2:00354763

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


The Best American series is the premier annual showcase for the country’s finest short fiction and nonfiction. Each volume’s series editor selects notable works from hundreds of magazines, journals, and websites. A special guest editor, a leading writer in the field, then chooses the best twenty or so pieces to publish. This unique system has made the Best American series the most respected — and most popular — of its kind.

The Best American Short Stories 2012 includes

Nathan Englander, Mary Gaitskill, Roxane Gay, Jennifer Haigh,
Steven Millhauser, Alice Munro, Lawrence Osborne, Eric Puchner,
George Saunders, Kate Walbert, and others

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(like Auntie) but she doesn’t “associate” either. Even to Ruby, who was employed before Comfort was born, Comfort says little. The only employee you’ve ever heard her thank that one time is Francis. She barely seemed to notice Iago, back-lit, at the door. “You are welcome, Sister Comfort,” he whispered. She looked. The sun from behind him seeped into her eyes. Seated across from her, you stared at her face. You’d never seen this particular look in her eyes, which are dark brown and gentle, even

kitchen table. I took a chance and told her about it. “You were really sexy,” I said. “Yeah, I guess I’m trying to get my life together now,” she said, not at all embarrassed. She took a small bite of food, put her plastic utensils at four o’clock, and I went hot. The question is: what kind of snob gets turned on by table manners? Trust me, I’m not. In a room of blue bloods, I’m so intimidated I can’t speak. I grew up in a Pensacola split-level, my single mom supporting my brother and me on an

They’ve got a nice nine-hole course, a driving range, some greens for the practice putting. And my dad’s at the clubhouse. I go with him. He wants to work out in the gym, he says. Tells me I should come. Get some exercise. And he tells me”—and here Mark points at his feet, sliding a leg out from under the table so we can see his big black clodhoppers—“‘You can’t wear those Shabbos shoes on the treadmill. You need the sneakers. You know, sports shoes?’ And I tell him, ‘I know what sneakers are. I

gardening shoes, and stepped back. In the light of the ceiling bulb I saw my reflection, standing with a cloth over his shoulder and looking out at me as if ready to hurl himself into whatever the day might bring. The sight of him standing there with his sleeves pushed up and his cloth over his shoulder and his look of readiness—all this made me smile, and the smile that came back to me seemed to stream out of the glass and into my arms, my chest, my face, my blood. The next day after work I

small frown of concentration, then tastes some, judging. “Listen. We’re pulling the plug on the phone tonight. Your Uncle Russ is helping me with Grandma, and at some point in the middle of the night he’s going to throw up his hands and call here for help. I have to open the store tomorrow so I have no time for your grandmother’s monkey business. I need solid sleep.” “Is she going to be all right?” For no reason Darlyn can see, Lake is crazy about her grandmother. “Oh, I can’t imagine that,

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