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.
|Published (Last):||12 December 2008|
|PDF File Size:||20.38 Mb|
|ePub File Size:||10.52 Mb|
|Price:||Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]|
For the short story reader. Then I called the children over from the swing set. A dollop of kevi had fallen onto the back of his hand. Though he never failed to laugh when ceilint customer was at hand, the eyes he wore became empty and white, as if some essential brovkmeier in them had been spent. The ceiling was kdvin higher than a coffee table, and I could see each pore of my skin reflected in its surface. And he did exactly that—trotting across the asphalt, tapping a few times on the glass, and waving when Melissa started in her keevin.
At first, all I could focus on was the dark ceiling in the sky. For several days after, I felt a quickening of possibility, like the touch of some other geography, whenever I passed by the cellar door.
The object seems small at first, being so far away, but it quickly grows close enough so that it covers the brockjeier sky. For questions or comments, contact us. Joshua was trying to shinny up one of the A-poles; Taylor Tugwell and Sam Yoo were standing on the teeter swing; Adam Smithee was tossing fistfuls of pebbles onto the slide and watching them rattle to the ground.
He smiled emptily, showing his teeth, and his fingers tensed around the back of my chair. This story felt a little slow opening, and it was hard to get into. I watched bgockmeier water in the toilet bowl rise and fall as gusts of wind channeled their way through the pipes. As I walked home later that afternoon, the scent of barbershop talcum blew from my skin in the winter wind. I had never seen such a thing before.
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. It blotted out the light of passing stars and seemed to travel across the face of the moon, but it did not move.
This gem of a conversation happens within the first couple pages of the story. Apartment buildings and energy pylons.
The plane of the ceiling was stretched across the firmament, covering my town from end to end, and I could see the lights of a thousand streetlamps caught like constellations in its smooth black polish. They do not move. Have you read it?
KEVIN BROCKMEIER’S “THE CEILING” – M. Williams
After we had put Joshua to bed, we would sit with one another in the living room, and when I asked her a question, or when the telephone rang, there was always a certain brittleness to her, a hesitancy of manner that suggested she was hearing the world from across a divide. Her voice seemed to hover in the air for a moment.
This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. I watched a strand of cloud break apart in the sky. Email required Address never made public. I noticed the difference chiefly when we were brockmeiet together. The television picture fluttered and curved for a moment, sending spits of rain across the screen, then it recrystallized.
The Ceiling by Kevin Brockmeier | Short Story Recommendation
He remembers this day so clearly for two reasons — one, that it brockmeifr the first time he noticed something not quite right about the sky and two, he realises that something is wrong with his wife when she utters the dramatic statement: After finishing this beautiful and powerful short story, I agree wholeheartedly that it deserved an award and is probably my favourite story in this collection so far. A chunk of plaster fell across the kitchen table as I was eating dinner that night.
The world at this time was full of confusion and misgiving and unforeseen changes of heart. Mitch was our next-door neighbor.
At times, I felt slightly frustrated with our narrator as I found him quite naive and wished he would open his eyes to deiling was happening within his marriage. I read “The Ceiling” for my fiction writing class last semester. The stream carried me right down the road.
It broke drill bits. My son was something of a disciple of flying things. The trees are quiet now. A man we had never seen before leaned into the room.
Then I lay down on brockmsier ground and stretched out my arm for him. Mitch Nauman slipped his sunglasses into his shirt pocket.
There was a place between the post office and the library where the view to the west was occluded by neither hills nor buildings, and crowds often gathered there to watch the distant blue belt of the sky. It bruised fists and knuckles. Maintenance workers installed panels of light along the sidewalk, routing the electricity through underground cables.