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 felt a kick of pain in my chest and called to Joshua from across the street. Church steeples, derricks, and telephone poles. This story was recommended by Alan Heathcock.
For several days after, I felt a quickening of possibility, like the touch of some other geography, kefin I passed by the cellar door. Notify me of new comments via email. Apartment buildings and energy pylons.
I do have a theory, though. With such scarce sunlight, the knotgrass had failed to blossom, and there was little tending for me to do. Then she looked up at me.
Dogwood trees were planted in hollows along the perimeter, and benches of distressed metal stood here and there on concrete pads. To me, the ceiling represents the suffocation, dissatisfaction, and unhappiness that we occasionally feel in our lives. I watched a strand of cloud break apart in the sky. Trees released a steady sprinkle of leaves and pine cones, then came timbering to the earth—those that were broad and healthy cleaving straight down the heartwood, those that were thin and pliant bending until they cracked.
For the short story reader.
The Ceiling by Kevin Brockmeier | Short Story Recommendation
When nothing happened, I squeezed it again. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use. And he did exactly ceilinng across the asphalt, tapping a few times on the glass, and waving when Melissa started in her chair. First I heard a creaking noise, and then I saw the leg posts buckling.
The people of my town ceilkng uncertain as to whether the object was spreading or approaching—we could see only that it was getting bigger—and this matter gave rise to much speculation. He leaned back into the sunlight, and her calf muscles tautened. Billboards and streetlamps, chimneys and statues. Bobby Nauman began to play the Where Am I? We hopped from our seats to avoid the spill. A member of a local guerrilla theater troupe was delivering a recitation from beneath a streetlamp; she sat behind a wooden desk, her hands folded one atop the other, and spoke as if into a camera.
A man on a stepladder was pasting a sign to the ceiling: Notify me of brockmmeier posts via email.
The trees are quiet now. That’s when it hit me: Then, as if on cue, he glanced up and a light came into his eyes.
The insects had begun to sing, the birds to fall quiet. The ceiling itself proved unassailable. Notify me of new comments via email. This story is available for free online. So this is what I did: You are commenting using your Facebook account. On his first day, Melissa shot a photograph of Joshua waving to her from the front door, his backpack wreathed over his shoulder and a lunch sack in his right hand.
I had been observing my breath for the last few hours on the polished undersurface of the ceiling: When Melissa asked her question, the first I had heard from her in many days, I gave a sudden puff of air through my nose and two icicle-shaped blossoms appeared.
I kneeled at the headstone they shared and unfastened a zip-per of moss from it. 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.
Archived from the original on May 9, In an interview with this station, Dr. I was on my lunch break. I was watching him in the mirror, which was both parallel to and coextensive with a mirror on the opposite wall.
Our newest weekly issues. There were many birds here before, but now there gone. The sun came through the windows in a sheet of fire.