Ben Loory

@benloory.bsky.social

Writer 📚 Tales of Falling and Flying, Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day benloory.com

🚨Reminder to everyone in Los Angeles that Scott McClanahan will be reading from his new book FIGHTS! at the Stories Bookstore in Echo Park tonight (Wednesday August 5) at 6pm🚨

🚨Reminder to everyone in Los Angeles that Scott McClanahan will be reading from his new book FIGHTS! at the Stories Bookstore in Echo Park tonight (Wednesday August 5) at 6pm🚨

Dreamt Alfred Hitchcock came back from the dead to present me with a crane or heron of some kind? It was very big and I was trying to be grateful but also I was little worried because it was, as I said, very big, and I didn’t know what it ate or how sharp its bill was

me: the simpsons have four fingers on each hand so you’d think they’d live in a base 8 society but as far as I can tell there’s no evidence of that in the show my wife: *screaming during labor* the obgyn: hold on i want to hear more about this

This is an interesting book, by a Brazilian writer living in the US. I was quite struck last night by a story whose narrator is homesick for the brutalism of Brasília but finds some comfort in the Guggenheim Museum.

The cover of ‘Craft: stories I wrote for the Devil’ by Ananda Lima.She stood on the corner across from the museum. She felt the winter air on her forehead, but she was well covered other-wise: scarf over half her face, gloves, her hands in her pockets, the right socks. Her puffy jacket was optimized for utility rather than looks. She had learned well, to live here. She appreciated now, how New York winters were often sunny, the skies bright blue, as they were today. She liked the clarity of this crisp air, the angle of the sun in winter. It was as if an optometrist cleaned her lenses, the way she couldn't do herself: completely clear. A perfect day to see the building. She loved the exterior. That matte-white concrete could be a stylized picture in a postcard, textureless, blank. But also, that white concrete was a delicious contradiction of textures. It was paper, and the freshly painted walls of the apartments of her childhood, and the chalky white concrete of Brasília.

The Fae: so we’re going to take you away from here and— Me: I accept! The Fae: and you won’t remember anything and you will not return for a century— Me: I ACCEPT HARDER

I don't know if I saw four or five separate bats tonight or was being stalked by one particular bat, but either way a half hour is a long time to share your personal space with a bat. 🦇