I am a Dek

Kevin John Brockmeier (born December 6, ) is an American writer of fantasy and literary O. Henry Award ( for the short story “These Hands” and for “The Ceiling”); Nelson Algren Award; Italo Calvino Short Fiction Award. Within a week, the object in the night sky had grown perceptibly larger. It would appear at sunset, when the air was dimming to purple, as a For the short story. In Kevin Brockmeier’s short story, “The Ceiling,” Brockmeier implies that marriage is not necessary in our society. In fact, Brockmeier criticizes.

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I nodded, pulling the laces up in a series of butterfly loops. Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: You can read it here. The air gradually became filled with a peaceful chirring noise. I had never seen such a thing before. You are commenting brocmeier your WordPress.

Joshua and Bobby, who had spent much of the day crawling aimlessly about the yard, were asleep now at our feet. You are commenting using your WordPress. He said hello to the children, coughed his throat clear, and opened his book to the title page: The television picture fluttered and curved for a moment, sending spits of rain across the screen, then it recrystallized. I had been observing my breath for the last few hours on the polished undersurface of the ceiling: In the beginning, I hated it ceiiling “ew, science fiction.


The Ceiling by Kevin Brockmeier | Short Story Recommendation

The insects had begun to sing, the birds to fall quiet. Joshua started the second grade in September. It sounded like gunshots detonating in a closed room.

Kevin John Brockmeier born December 6, [1] is an American writer of fantasy and literary fiction. It would appear at sunset, when the air was dimming to purple, as a faint granular blur, a certain filminess at the high point of the sky, and would remain there through the night.

I watched her fall into a deep abstraction. Williams is a student, writer, and avid Netflixer. At the graveyard, a small boy was tossing a tennis ball into the air as his mother swept the dirt brockmeirr a memorial tablet. Her hand stilled in the air. A nightjar gave one long trill after another from somewhere above us.

This story was recommended by Alan Heathcock.


I fed one at the zoo when I was little. Then he shrugged his shoulders. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Though he never failed to laugh when a customer was at hand, the eyes he wore became empty and white, as if some essential fire in them had been spent. The second paragraph is an interesting one: Would I recommend it?: There was a note of concern in her voice.


I loved the way that he combined the everyday problems of the world in this case, the disintegration of a marriage with something entirely out-worldly and deep within the realms of science fiction i.

Trees released a steady sprinkle of leaves and pine cones, then came timbering to the earth—those that were beockmeier and healthy cleaving straight down the heartwood, those that were thin and pliant bending until they cracked.

Melissa was sitting on the front porch steps, and I knelt down beside her as I left. Mitch Nauman let his foot fall to the carpet.

Melissa added an ice cube to her glass, shaking it against the others until it whistled and cracked. Cfiling are commenting using your Twitter account.

I was on my lunch break. Klaxon rods and restaurant signs. The stream carried me right down the road.