An author described her book as in conversation with several other books. Hers is loosely an epistolary novel and it speaks to other books of similar form.

There’s that feeling when you just wake up and you don’t know if you’re awake or asleep, especially if you’ve just woken up from a dream. Then you realize

Traffic was backed up. Several emergency vehicles surrounded a car with a smashed windshield and a crumbled hood. The driver said a naked man fell on her car. No man was found.

I wonder if construction workers who build churches feel any different about their work than people who build office buildings or homes.

A woman was celebrating that her father had become an ancestor. That seems like a much better way to remember someone and honor their memory.