A friend of mine—whose last name is literally ‘Friend’, because sometimes the Universe feels the need to make things obvious for us—contacted me early one morning to say, “Reread the short stories in The Lottery by Shirley Jackson and watch out for James or Jim Harris,” and I, sufficiently intrigued, and not having read much Jackson since finishing We Have Always Lived In The Castle, opened the book and recalled,
Two short Susan stories that make one nice, upsetting pair. Click here to read them at Fictionaut.
Hybristophilia is a concept which has been gaining interest for some time, particularly from a literary standpoint. A hybristophile is best described as some who loves their partner because of a serious crime, often violent in nature. When we think of the word, we think of Myra Hindley, or Ted Bundy’s legion of fan-girls. Crazy women, we think. Lunatics! What woman would write to someone like that, let alone participate!
We’ve all got dreams, but especially writers. Even if they don’t directly entertain them, or they’ve buried them, or they’re cynics or realists or whatever reason they have–even they have a private space in the very back corner of the brain, home of the What-If. Sometimes they catch the What-If behind them in the mirror while they shave. Sometimes the What-If drifts beside the bus or train window. Sometimes the