For the short story reader. Updated every Monday.

The Short Form


Tim Horvath


A thought that I had vaguely had before crystallized in my mind: nonfiction could be pinned down, assigned its plot of shelf real estate, where it could reliably be located in the continuum of knowledge, in any library in any country in the world. But fictions were like transient, shifty renters—all we could do with them was alphabetize them by the arbitrary condition of the authors' last names and hope they stayed put.

“So,” my father murmured. “He get away with it?”

The tip of my tongue rooted around between my lip and the top of my gums as I pondered, as though the answer were wedged there like food caught in teeth. 

We read it in Understories.