A House With Good Bones

by T. Kingfisher

My phone informed me that it was absolutely talking to the internet, it was happy to talk to the internet, it loved talking to the internet, then as soon as I tried to check my email, it told me it had never heard of the internet and wasn’t entirely sure it existed.

Gran Mae had been racist, in that Southern heavily-in-denial way, where you think watching Oprah counts as having a black friend.

Waffle House at four in the morning is a liminal space occupied by long-haul truckers, bleary-eyed shift workers, and teenagers so high they can smell God’s breath.