The Selected Short Fiction of Lisa Moore (A List)

The Selected Short Fiction of Lisa Moore (A List)

Language: English

Pages: 296

ISBN: 1770892559

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Lisa Moore's stories are bright, emotionally engaging, tangible. She marks out the precious moments of her characters' lives against deceptively commonplace backdrops — a St. John's hospital cafeteria lit only by the lights in the snack machines; a half-built house "like a rib cage around a lungful of sky" — and the results linger long in the memory. The Collected Short Fiction of Lisa Moore shows us that love, alongside desire, can sometimes come as a surprise, sometimes an ambush. She splices moments and images together so adroitly, so vividly, you'll swear you've lived them yourself. This new volume, bringing together Lisa Moore’s first two books of stories, Open and Degrees of Nakedness, is the very best way to encounter one of the finest short-story writers in the country. This edition features a brilliant new introduction by Jane Urquhart on the importance of Moore’s work.

The Romantic

The Short Stories from 1909-1922

Anne of Windy Poplars (Anne of Green Gables, Book 4)

Les Faux Fuyants


















clean, the shadow edges hard. I imagine a map of the city with plastic inlays of Sherry’s sales, family migration patterns from one neighbourhood to another. Each move changing lives irrevocably. Sherry is responsible for it. You sell a house to a customer and five years later they’ll be back to you for another. There are only three things to think about in selling real estate. Location, Location, Location. In India several years ago I was on a tour of a city palace. A guide

in St. John’s. The tablecloth is gone; the table is red, bright red enamel paint, and there is the creamer, full of milk. The kitchen is pumpkin, forest green cupboards. The kitchen screams. My hands are on the table in front of me. I want to throw the creamer. Milk fluttering over your head, a long ribbon of surrender. It is a huge effort not to give in and throw it. Then my fist slams. What is wrong with you, I shout. I say, Speak. Do you think I’m joking? You say, I’m

felt for days afterward, while washing dishes for his mother, dopey with the steam rising from the sink and the heat of the oven, or while lazing on the living-room carpet before Gilligan’s Island and Get Smart with the slippery velvet of the golden retriever’s ear in his fingers. The cheeks of her bum, breasts like saucers of snowflakes, smoky breath, the bitten-down fingernails with chipped blue polish. He’d held her arms over her head, both of her wrists in one

Queen and a man on crutches offers Lily daffodils. His eyes watery, knuckles on the handles, leaning forward. I bought these for you, he says. Let me give you some money. She has taken out a coin purse and ten dollars. I wouldn’t take a penny, he says. I couldn’t take it from you. I could not. I absolutely. Those flowers are a gift. He puts the money in his pocket. He says, What’s your name? Lily. Lily. This money is going to Sick Kids’. That’s where your

won’t mention the missing earring. We have heard enough about the earring, thinks Eleanor. She was too young for gold. Eleanor is tired of Gabrielle. Tired of the wedding. Tired of losing things. She wants it to be tomorrow already. Her neck, the back of her neck, she realizes, is tired. Hi, Sadie, Gabrielle says. Then she grabs Sadie around the waist in a fit of passion, burying her face. I love you so much, Gabrielle says. Are you having a good time at the wedding,

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