I’ve been reading, and more recently teaching this writer for ever. Most recently I used this piece in, strangely, my novel class, mmmm. To be reminded that a novel is just, not just, but just up-sized, an expansion and contraction, or crystalline refraction of random human moments, countless, like this:
Truth is a Bearded Lady
by Stephen Graham Jones
My husband has two hearts. He told me. When he was a kid, sideshow people were always lurking around to kidnap him into the carnival. But he got away each time, just barely. If he hadn’t, we wouldn’t be together right now. But he only tells me about his second heart. His other wife thinks he’s like everybody else. She thinks he just has one heart, can just love one woman. I know the truth, though. He trusts me with all his secrets. If either of his hearts is bigger, then it’s the one he’s given me.