Curl up and fall asleep to the world's greatest short stories, the known treasures and the once-forgotten, purred to you as only Miette can...
A saw a sign the other day while out on a drive, a sign that said this: Frost Heaves.
And I almost had to stop and compose myself, because I was so deeply distressed by the fact that frost can’t heave in private (and I’m not a histrionic sort of girl), and saddened that a frost’s heave has to be announced clearly for any old asshole who happens to be driving by…
The question that’s been asked a few times of me now: why don’t I read more African writers? Actually, it’s been asked more than a few times… enough times, in fact, to warrant the sort of qualifier most accurately described as MANY.
It’s confusing, the name of tonight’s author, right? I mean, the better known writer sharing this name didn’t bother with a middle pseudonymous initial, and there’s a slight tweak to the surname, but we readers would be none the wiser, push-to-shove, and would settle back with a cup of tea and upperclass accent.
