Sebastian Malloy – Page 2

Every Cat’s Got a Bit of an Asshole in Him

Every Cat’s Got a Bit of an Asshole in Him

The library in Winchester is open four days a week, and today is one of those days. We have come to escape the heat, and because we haven’t had the chance to visit the library yet, which is a crime in a civilized world. The building is small, no larger...

Popeye as a Role Model

We are out of butter and short on cream, so Hunter and I decide that a trip to the general store in town is in order. It’s too far to walk, but a half hour drive isn’t too bad, and there is still enough of the city people in us...

What’s In Your Head

In the mailbox this morning, we find an envelope addressed to us from our realtor, the one who had helped us to get this house in the woods in which we now live. Inside this envelope is a second, smaller envelope, like one that would come with a bouquet of...

A Postcard to Rivi

Paranormal Tinglies

The clock on my phone reads 1:40am, and I finally give up on trying to sleep and crawl out of bed. I slip into the walk-in closet and get dressed by the glow from my phone before heading downstairs for coffee and breakfast. My mood can not in the slightest...

Things From the Archive

The Secret Architectures of Spiders

Hannah is sucking on a Blow Pop as we drive. She is scrolling through my iPhone, looking at my music. “Don’t you have anything from this century in here?” she asks. “Don’t give me any grief,” I say. “You’re the same age I am.” “Maybe, but my musical education didn’t...

Ghost From the Archives

A Dead Man’s Gum

Ghost From the Archives

Funereal Hillbillies

Ghost From the Archives

The Recent Past

Funereal Hillbillies

We are in the California Central Valley, about a half an hour north of Sacramento, and we are tired of driving. It’s farmland here mostly, trees and low plants that I can’t identify without vegetables or fruit growing on them, and fenced off grazing land with cattle wandering about. It’s all stuff I remember from my youth, but this particular scenery is new to Hunter, so I have been tour guiding our way along the back roads at her while we’ve been traveling. “I learned how to change a flat right over there,” I say, pointing to the side of…

A Dead Man’s Gum

“So,” Viola says. “You know those carnival rides with the swings? The ones that spin and spin and raise up, and you’re going forty miles an hour in a stomach-churning circle that’s supposed to be fun, but really just make you want to vomit on everyone that’s standing down on the ground in line to ride the thing next?” “Oh sure,” I say. “I know what you’re talking about.” “So that’s the thing my Uncle Harry died on.” “Well, shit,” I say. She nods. “Shit indeed. Chains broke on it when he was up in the air. Seatbelt stayed buckled…

Alain Delon and la Dépression Française

It’s snowing as Rivi and I walk along the path beside the creek. She has been staying with us for a week, and has spent most of the time in the guest room with the door shut. Hibernating, she calls it. Hiding, I tell her. Either way, I’m glad that she’s out today, if not exactly in public, at least out with me. We don’t speak as we walk, and the only sounds are the trickling of the water in the creek as it splashes over the rocks and our shoes on the gravel path. There is a silence that…

Salt Lake Matador

A matador with a red cape facing off against an angry bull

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see that it’s a FaceTime call coming through: Rivi. I swipe to accept it. “Rivi,” I say. “Sebastian.” The image is dark except for a sliver of blue, enough to dimly illuminate the right side of Rivi’s face, and a bit of a wall behind her. “Where are you?” I ask. “Salt Lake,” she says. “Somewhere around there, I guess. Murder motel on the wrong side of the tracks. Actually, all of it’s on the wrong side of the tracks here.” “What are you doing in Salt Lake? And…

Headphone Girl

Black headphones against a dark background

“I’m setting fire to my Twitter,” Viola says. “It’s too much of a fucking mess. That whole place is imploding so hard that it’s going to suck into itself and black hole the entire thing into another dimension.” We are sitting on the roof of her house, just outside her attic window, in a place most people would consider dangerous. We are not most people. It’s cold out, and gray, and an icy wind is blowing, but there is still a plague going on, even if most of the world is pretending that there isn’t. Up here, we can take…

Antediluvian Banker’s Boxes

“I used to write poetry,” Viola tells me. “A million years ago, before I got old and fossilized.” “You aren’t old,” I say. “You’re just a baby.” “I’m the same age as you, Bastian. We are antediluvian.” We are in the back yard of her house, seated in wrought iron chairs around the matching iron table. We are not masked in this time of plague, which is fine. The both of us are vaccinated, and we do not go anywhere, do anything. This is the world now. We make do as best we can. “I have a banker’s box in…

Rocket Man

Plans In the Fading Light

“Sit on the end of the bed,” I say. “Hands in your lap.” Tina does as I ask, putting her hands together, letting them fall slightly into the space between her thighs. She is wearing an old cardigan, a whisper of blue still clinging to the thin fabric. It’s open in the front, revealing to my eye, but I know that when I take the photo, the curves beneath will be lost in the shadows painted on her by the fading evening light. “Don’t move,” I say. I go to her, and with the tip of my finger, I move…