Susan Daitch
Susan Daitch is the author of two novels, L.C., and The Colorist, and a collection of short fiction, Storytown. Besides the Rail, her work has appeared in failbetter.com, The Pushcart Prize Anthology, Ploughshares, The Norton Anthology of Postmodern Fiction, and featured in The Review of Contemporary Fiction.
www.susandaitch.com
I was waiting in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles, the 34th Street office, a line that, had it been unwound from its switchbacks might have stretched for several city blocks.
A new threat arrived on Nir’s desk late in the afternoon. The envelope was buried with other interoffice notices and memos, although the thirty-nine cent Lunar Year of the Rat stamp revealed only that it had been mailed from the outside.
On the day one thousand people were killed when a bridge collapsed in Baghdad and Hurricane Katrina caused the word refugee to be invoked when referring to American citizens who lived in its path on the Gulf of Mexico, Elyse became a high elf. ...
The first layer contained nothing new, nothing nobody hadn’t ever seen before.
When she sat at her desk her back was to the window and the view, an expanse of perfectly green lawn with a flagpole stuck in the middle of it.
From her hotel window in Demarang Minou had a view of a square where vendors sold coconuts, mangoes, soda, rice and goat wrapped in banana leaves. It was very hot and at street level the sir smelled of motorbike exhaust and close cigarettes.
