All tagged Lise Quintana
Lise Quintana, our Writer of the Month for February 2016, leaves us with a story you'll never forget: the funny, disturbing, haunting "Fair".
“I think that what you have is an infestation of fairies.”
I waited for the smirk – for the “gotcha” that I was sure was coming, but she continued to stare at me with a serious expression.
Lise Quintana, our Writer of the Month, with the horrifying, symbolic, and surprising short story "Mummy (baby)".
Bella rubbed her fingertips over Maggie’s inner arm, and Maggie could feel a little ragged nail edge scratching her. She took the child’s hand, found the offender, and bit it off. She held the little grain of nail between her teeth and realized that in order to put it into the trash, she would have to dislodge Bella who was almost asleep. There was no way she could twist herself to spit it into the trash from where she was, so she swallowed it.
Lise Quintana builds a shocking, sweet legend around one of the most unique performers in music history: Yoko Ono.
In early 1980, just before John Lennon's death, Yoko Ono considered a breast augmentation. But this was 1980, and this was Yoko Ono. These would not be regular one-on-each-side-with-a-nipple-on-top kinds of breasts. Not for Yoko.
She went home, thinking that it was all a mistake. Lilit would be home when she got there. As she stood at the bus stop, she turned to look in the window of the appliance store on the corner. A dozen televisions showed the traffic on the street, captured by a camcorder at the top of the window. Mrs. Abernathy did what she always did at this bus stop, sizing up herself in her wool coat and knitted cap, then scanning the street behind her. Cars passed, business people talked on cell phones, but her eye went to a couple walking down the opposite side of the street.
I refer to the text of this story, but it just says “They chatted through dinner.” It doesn’t say whether I am supposed to laugh at his offensive jokes or even whether I find him attractive. I don’t find him attractive. He’s quite a few years older than me, although with his toad-like build and complexion, he could be much younger and just aging badly. I find the bartender, a man in his mid-30s with short hair razor-parted on the side, the sleeves of his white button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, much more attractive, but in this flashback the text doesn’t mention him at all, so I can barely even look his way.
