A. L. Kennedy—who I re-fell in love with earlier this year (in a Land Before Time sort of time, back when I wrote much longer (and potentially (though I can't verify this tonight) more content-rich) (albeit it with fewer dinosaurs, one might assume) blog posts)—has a new story in The New Yorker. It's called "Wasps." (I'm printing it now.) (Because, sometimes? I forget I own a printer. And then some other times? I remember I own a printer. And then I print stuff. And smile.)
(Via and reminded.)
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