Tuesday, May 31, 2011
"So, here it is. Prize Winners, stories by Ryan W. Bradley. 112 page collection of stories "not for the faint of heart... or loins." There are 18 stories in the book, 3 of which are unpublished, 5 of which have previously only been available in print. The collection includes the mildly infamous "Every Time A Fairy Gets Laid," a story that will forever change the way you see Tinkerbell. You can read some of Bradley's thoughts on the collection HERE.
Bradley is more than an intrepid editor and designer for ADP, he's putting himself on the line as our guinea pig for this "pop-up release" project, a series we hope will prove a new way for us to be able to publish a few more books a year.
Over the next few weeks a few reviews will appear, as per the "pop-up release" guidelines we set for ourselves. Until then: GO FORTH AND PREORDER "
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
No, I’ve never said that because I don’t think I know that. As a teacher, you just don’t know enough, especially if you are only with them for a semester. Someone can write twenty bad stories and then they write a good one; people can potentially develop very fast when they’re young. On top of that, my idea of what’s good or not may be irrelevant—a lot gets published that I don’t like at all.
Read the interview in full: http://fictionwritersreview.com/interviews/woman-to-woman-an-interview-with-mary-gaitskill
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Cagarese la Leche
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
“Who’s not allowed to?” is why “What?” must be asked. It’s a passionate way to ignore privacy. At least that’s the argument.
You don’t want anyone to know you’re barefoot. Recent polls among podiatrists show passion accounts only for 7.998% of a compelling argument. Size does matter.
Your fear of elegance tastes like diet Coke served by Donald Trump’s Hawaiian investigator in a Jamaican resort surrounded by
You get there by airplane. The pilot’s joystick goes limp in your hand. He seems happy when his parachute pops. “What?”
You’ve duct-taped two seashells to your ears. It looks nice. You're listening to the ocean's soundtrack. You gesture to say you can’t hear me. Nevermind me.
Your sneakers are made out of old bibles and you can almost make out the word ‘Barabbas’ on one of your soles. You want to save them for nostalgic purposes. Children made them far away.
We nickname you ‘Pontius’. “Who’s not allowed to?”
When your plane goes down you’re 7.998% passionate about surviving the pilot’s privacy. You’re surrounded by parachutes, like an ant in a falling garden. On the island, sneakers hang from the power lines.
The local missionaries who invaded half a century ago give you a bible. The bible says something about diet Coke you swear is not a typo. This is not very compelling.
You decide you’ll go door-to-door in your neighborhood, absorb all your neighbors into your testicles through your urethra's straw, store them there until you die.
When you die their ghosts will seep out of your urethra in one big orgasm you’ll only be able to feel nostalgically.
It will feel like your whole body has become carbonated, like small, fizzing bubbles of diet Coke.
You'll feel around in the dark. The podiatrist’s foot will go limp in your hand.