Supernova (Electric Literatures Recommended Reading Book 73)

Episode Seven, recommended by Electric Lit. Episode Six, recommended by Electric Lit. Episode Five, recommended by Electric Lit. Episode Four, recommended by Electric Lit. Episode Three, recommended by Electric Lit. Episode Two, recommended by Electric Lit. Episode One, recommended by Electric Lit The first episode of a story in seven parts.

And So, We Commence by J. Blackass excerpt by A. Igoni Barrett, Recommended by Chinelo Okparanta. But before he hits the send button, he hesitates. Shenkman presses send, and nothing happens. Sign in and create an account? He presses send again. The following evening, Shenkman flies out of work early. He feels under the weather, almost.

Like maybe he needs to go home and just get into bed. He needs to keep moving. Smooth sailing up the Major Deegan. He tenses his thighs against the seat of his car, then releases. Grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles go white. He pictures Lindgren at his grand opening. Judging from the picture in the alumni magazine, the guy looks even better than he did in college. Shenkman cracks his knuckles. Instead, he guns it.

His pulse races along with the car. Alice is going to be pissed. But she can take Waldo, just this once.

by Dani Shapiro, recommended by Electric Literature

On a straightaway, he steers with his knees and texts her. U ok to take W to Jujitsu? The whooshy little blip of his outgoing text lifts his spirits. The highway unfurls like a black velvet ribbon wrapped around an unexpected gift. Always on the margins. It kills Shenkman, when the boys turn away from his son. On the way home, he coaches Waldo: Stop pulling at your bottom lip.

The downtown, such as it is, is deserted. Luxury chain stores closed for the night. Doubling back, he nearly rear-ends the car in front of him. The ornate wooden doors of the restaurant are propped open with enormous ceramic planters. A few revelers in cocktail dresses and sports coats are sneaking smokes on the sidewalk.

Shenkman makes his approach. Each tall, fair-haired man he passes morphs for an instant into Lindgren. He would know Lindgren better from behind. For two years, they were on the same boat. Lindgren, the stroke, was closest to the coxswain.

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His stroke set the pace. Bow four, back it down! Number three, hands down and away! He wants only to say hello, he tells himself. To see up close the tangible result of a lifetime of good fortune. It hardens and calcifies like a diseased artery. He, Shenkman, is not lucky. Oh, he can work hard, do all right. He can eke something decent out of this life of his. He scans the crowd. A photographer is darting about, stopping certain people who pose and smile: In the cavernous dark of the restaurant, the camera flashes. The music is loud, heavy on the drumbeat. The banquettes are covered in faded red velvet, low tables scarred with candle drippings.

Ornate chandeliers and sconces. The effect is of a place that already has a history, not one that is just opening today. His breath is labored. He finds a waiter, downs a glass of wine in three gulps, then takes another from the tray. He grabs a handful of marcona almonds from a small dish on the long, polished bar. The green glass chandeliers cast the party-goers faces in a ghoulish light.

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Behind the bar, the glassware sparkles. It was the same way in college. Lindgren, his arm carelessly around some girl, who basked in her own chosenness. His blackberry vibrates in his pocket. Alice has sent him a text: At dojo with boy. She has attached a photo to the text.

He taps on it and Waldo fills the screen, tiny and barefoot in his stiff white uniform, flanked by two beefy kids. Something inside Shenkman swells. He pictures his boy, his old-man brow creased as he shouts the Japanese numerals: Ich Ni San Chi Go! Shenkman takes another sip of his drink and tries to breathe. What the fuck is he doing?

His boy deserves a father who can take measure of his life. All there is to it. Fortified, he begins to snake his way through the tables and banquettes, until he arrives at the back of a very familiar head. Lindgren is sitting with his wife and kids. The shoulders still wide, longish hair curling against his soft, strong neck. Snatches of conversation all around him: He stands by the table and clears his throat.

The face is the same. Not so Shenkman, who is acutely aware of his balding temples, his sagging jowls, the permanent lines running across his forehead.

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Does he even look like the same person? The wife leans over. Shenkman blurts out his own name. He watches as he comes into focus for Lindgren. Shenkman lowers himself to the banquette next to Lindgren. You know, on your restaurants and all. How the hell are you?

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He tries to smile. His face feels rubbery. Shenkman pulls his Blackberry out of his pocket and shows the screen to Lindgren. Lindgren passes the Blackberry to his kids. A dysfunctional family moves into a house touched by tragedy, and begins to investigate its strange past—but we also hear from an omniscient, supernatural presence, the Observer, a sort of narrator-turned-spirit.

And as the violence escalates, Nadia and Saeed will decide that they no longer have a choice. Read an excerpt from Exit West on Recommended Reading. Read our interview with Mohsin Hamid. Read our review of Fever Dream. Read our interview with Rachel Khong. Read our interview with Camille Bordas. Read our review of Lincoln in the Bardo. Read our interview with George Saunders. Read our interview with Celeste Ng. So many parts of Made for Love should be gross, glib, or otherwise off-putting: Read our interview with Alissa Nutting. Marlena is one of the best of the lot.

Read an excerpt from Marlena on Recommended Reading. Read our interview with Julie Buntin. Read a literary mixtape by Julie Buntin. Read our interview with Jesmyn Ward.