By Lisa Mangini
Mabel positions wood over the glowing newsprint ashes, and blows until they catch. Stephen flings a folded-up greeting card with hearts and glitter into the flames, a plastic bottle of scotch, half-gone, passing between them.
By Elaine McKay
Her peaches and bruised complexion haunt the flat. Bandaged in oversized sweaters, she’s shrinking.
He spills over the couch, thick skinned, swelling as he chews upon her nerve.
Stuart Dybek is a quiet master of the American short story. He doesn't cry out for attention, and he doesn't seem to need it, yet his stories demand re-reading in a way that few authors do.