The Best Short Story Writer in the Game Today

I turned back around to face her crotch—a tender triangle swollen and divided by the thick protuberance of her zipper fly, thick thighs pulling at the weave of red wool. A tiny key hung from a coiled loop of white telephone cord wrapped around her left wrist. She fingered the coils with long, chipped black nails. I had to marry her. If I couldn't, I would kill myself. I broke out in a sweat as though I was about to vomit.

Ottessa Moshfegh writes about relationships, losers and the commonplace with unparalleled vitality and unpredictability. There are no guns, murders or mayhem that typically drive the stories I read/write, and yet I don't miss them whatsoever. The mystery, the desperation, are in the story itself. The characters. Amazing.

In this first-person story, "Dancing in the Moonlight," in The Paris Review, Moshfegh writes as a man, and nails it.

Later that night, leaning against the crumbling, mildewed tile of the shower stall back home, I looked down at myself. I was beautiful, I thought. Legions of curious fingers should be reaching out to touch me. My arms were thick and strong. A spurt of wiry black hair rose from my wrist, trembling in the warm spray like a delicate morning tendril in the dew. There I was, spectacular and alive, and the whole world was missing it.

This story is only in the print edition, but read one of Moshfegh's previous stories in TPR, "The Weirdos," here.

"Burn" by Danny Jarrett in fringeLIT

She communicated with me only by asking questions, and by talking dirty to me. Read story here.

"Brenda's Kid" by Lindsay Hunter in Wigleaf

But also true was how often she considered harming her child, just a little. Taser gun. Mace. Roundhouse kick. Judo chop. Good old windmill. Tires crunching over toes. She had never done any of it, she had once lobbed a small decorative pumpkin at his head, but that was the extent. Read story here.

"Steve's Father" by Molly Giles in Corium Magazine

Two inmates have escaped from Angola but Steve’s father tells Steve’s wife not to worry, he keeps 85 loaded weapons right here in the house, so even if the niggers do head for Mobile, they’ll be safe. Read story here. ... Other Corium entries here.

"Things You Won’t Tell Your Therapist" by Colleen Kearney Rich in SmokeLong Quarterly

The reason you can’t remember his face, not clearly, is because you waited too long to turn around and only saw the back of his head and his red backpack as he stepped off the bus. Read story here.

"The Waterdevil" by Kevin Corvus in The Molotov Cocktail

Wrapped around the water pipe in black greasy coils was something like a slug or a tapeworm. It must have been several feet long and was thick like a python but looked softer and squishy. The thing pulsated and writhed to an alien rhythm. Read story here.

"Force Feed" in the novella Animals

He says some things no ten-year-old should say. He calls his stepfather a motherjabber. He says Cleavon’s gonna turn that motherjabber inside out and torch his rotten corpse. From "Force Feed" in the novella Animals in Red Fez.