The Reader‘s fiction issue has long been a favorite of mine. It provides an equanimous counterpoint to the energetic band reviews, restaurant openings, and Savage advice—a moment to slip into other spaces and imagined worlds. That the Reader makes time and room for fiction is almost subversive in today’s publishing landscape. As the conglomerates conglomerate further (consider Random House’s recent swallowing of a Penguin), the energy of literary-minded folks continues to find expression in independent outlets. Readings like the Danny’s Tavern series, presses like Curbside Splendor, and publications like the Reader continue to provide vital venues for storytelling in Chicago.
“Isn’t that right, Pete?”by Andrew Hicks
“He slipped or his perch gave way, and down he went. The father climbed down after him, but there was nothing that he or the Coast Guard could do.”
“LOS”by J.D. Sommer
“When I look out the capsule window all I see is the moon. … If I landed where I was supposed to I would be able to see home.”
“Sometimes, in the twisted wreckage of the car, I could just make out a clump of Danny’s blond hair. I could smell the gasoline.”
“State Hospital”by Bridget Gamble
“I’ve been making up answers to people’s questions about my future. I’ve been showing my breasts to strangers on the Internet.”
