He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window. “It’s better not to sleep at all,” he decided. There was a cold damp draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday—Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere—at the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself—were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal. Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled
The Blog
Top 100 Journals Accepting Online Submissions 
As of July 2019, 80 of the top 100 journals accept online submissions. Of those 80, 43 charge reading fees. I would strongly advise you to submit first to the journals without submission fees, submit reluctantly to those that charge fees, and never submit to anyone that charges more than $3 (unless it’s a contest […]
Read More Jim Shepard at the Hammer For all of you in Los Angeles, Jim Shepard will be at the Hammer Museum this Tuesday night, and so will I. Except he will be on the stage, reading and talking to Mona Simpson, while I will be sitting in the audience, dutifully listening to this short story master.
Read More Ali Smith On Short Stories The first story in Ali Smith’s collection The First Person is half meditation on the form and half character struggling with her friend’s cancer. I won’t reproduce any of the cancer storyline, but the first two quotes below are said by characters when trying to describe the short story: “The novel, he was saying, was […]
Read More Glen Pourciau Interview: Kafka, Buddhism, and Linked Stories Glen Pourciau’s short story collection Invite won the Iowa Short Fiction Award and was published by the University of Iowa press. The stories contained in Invite, ten in all, were originally published in journals such as New England Review, Ontario Review, and Mississippi Review. I caught up with Pourciau over email and asked him […]
Read More Short Story Book Club The One Story blog, Save the Short Story, alerted me to a new book club, Andrew’s Book Club, which focuses on two short story collections a month. January’s picks are Delicate Edible Birds by Lauren Groff and Things That Pass for Love by Allison cheap drugs pharmacy Amend. The book club offers multiple ways to […]
Read More Story Prize Finalists Out of a field of 73 books, the Story Prize has announced its finalists for 2008: Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri (Alfred A. Knopf) Demons in the Spring by Joe Meno (Akashic Books) Our Story Begins by Tobias Wolff (Alfred A. Knopf) I am surprised by the Joe Meno nomination, but also delighted because […]
Read More LA Weekly I used to enjoy the LA Weekly on a regular basis — consult it for book readings, check out the interviews of literary folk and/or original fiction in its pages, find out how local politicians were squandering money and cultivating corruption. But alas, as Marc Cooper describes in great detail in LA Weekly: The Autopsy […]
Read More Quotes of the Day The New York Times has an lively, quote-filled and entertaining article in the recently created genre of Depress-Lit: All terrible news about the publishing industry, all the time. It’s “Puttin’ Off the Ritz: The New Austerity in Publishing.” What amused me were the quotes. The first, from the literary agent Amanda Urban, who represents Cormac […]
Read More Wovels (You Wish That Was A Misspelling) Apparently something called a Wovel (Web + Novel, get it? Get it?) is the new incarnation of online storytelling. It’s like Choose Your Own Adventure books: at the end of each section, readers get to vote which direction the story takes. Check out the Underland Press website for an example in progress. Maybe even cast […]
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