Any Time But This Time: Grace Paley Prize for Short Fiction
Autor Adam Petersonen Limba Engleză Paperback – 13 noi 2026
The stories of Adam Peterson’s funny, daring, and deliciously outrageous debut Any Time But This Time span our history and confront our future. From the first woman on Earth grieving among the Neanderthals to the last man alive nursing the dying flame of love, this collection moves across human history and geography to reveal us at our best and lament our worst. Jesus declares himself a superhero. Lost sailors launch an ill-fated attempt to colonize medieval England. A young woman fights to commandeer the founding of America. A pioneer’s wife satisfies her endless sexual appetite in barren Nebraska. Children hurtle into space to confront alien life—even though they really, really just want love. For fans of George Saunders and Kelly Link, these voices, unbound by time and undaunted by consequence, show us that there are truly no limits to what a short story—so long as it centers our relentless human heart—can do.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780814259986
ISBN-10: 0814259987
Pagini: 176
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 mm
Editura: Ohio State University Press
Colecția Mad Creek Books
Seria Grace Paley Prize for Short Fiction
ISBN-10: 0814259987
Pagini: 176
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 mm
Editura: Ohio State University Press
Colecția Mad Creek Books
Seria Grace Paley Prize for Short Fiction
Recenzii
“As history tends to shave off the weird bumps and ridges of our past, it's exhilarating and unsteadying to read a collection that ambitiously seeks to provide a kind of bizarro reimagining of our world. Any Time But This Time is odd and hilarious and yet so tenderly human, so unafraid of cataloging all the strange desires and cruelties and moments of true connection that have somehow gotten us to this moment in time, and then it rockets beyond that to imagine an even stranger future. This is wildness of the highest order, unforgettable and highly original.” —Kevin Wilson, author of Nothing to See Here
“Deeply entertaining, the stories in this collection crackle with the spark of imagination, invention, and compassion. Peterson writes with a satisfying blend of humor and pathos, fearless in both wit and empathy. For lovers of George Saunders and Haruki Murakami, with a dash of Aimee Bender, this collection also feels somehow entirely fresh.” —Aja Gabel, author of Lightbreakers
“The stories in Adam Peterson’s Any Time But This Time are funny, but, like, really, really funny, but like, the kind of funny that makes you laugh and laugh and then makes you question your own soul, or whether you even have a soul, because Adam Peterson has slyly tricked you into laughing at some of the worst possible things, the most terrible people, the most dire situations. He has made you laugh the kind of laughter that keeps you honest, makes you see the world as it really is. This is a fabulous, unrelenting collection, full of gorgeous, punchy, compulsively readable prose. Do yourself a favor: Pick it up, take it home, and start reading.” —Manuel Gonzales, author of The Miniature Wife and Other Stories
“Each story in Any Time But This Time is a window into unseen moments of history, deftly conveying the ‘incomprehensible beauty, all too comprehensible horror’ of the human experience. Peterson’s voice carries an almost prophetic weight, masterfully balancing the lyrical, existential, heartbreaking, and humorous with a skill and style akin to writers like George Saunders and Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah. From the first cave woman to identify as human, to the unraveling of language as our species dies off, I was enraptured by this book and felt genuinely changed after reading it. Uniquely funny and profoundly moving, this is a rare and exciting feat of literature.” —Erin Slaughter, author of A Manual for How to Love Us
Notă biografică
Adam Peterson is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Angeles. He’s the author of the prose poetry collections My Untimely Death,The Flasher, and [SPOILER ALERT] (with Laura Eve Engel). His short fiction has appeared in Epoch, The Kenyon Review,The Southern Review, and a mess of other places. His films have played at HollyShorts, Fantasia Fest, and Just for Laughs, among many other festivals.
Extras
Denise, or: The First Woman on Earth
I am the first, but I am not alone. There’s me and there’s the Ogs, who huddle in the dark hollow of a cave. Why? Because Frank invented using one rock to make another rock a slightly different shape. Now they’re terrified someone might steal the new rock. I swear to god, these people.
Although they’re not, phylogenetically speaking, people.
I would tell them that I’m different, that I can make rocks all kinds of shapes, that Frank is obviously the one who murdered the Grand Og because there’s blood all over his new rock, but they wouldn’t listen to me. Not because I’m a woman, but because they don’t have a language, these dick-fingered fucks.
That doesn’t mean they can’t talk. They say the dumbest shit. Even now I can hear Frank asking me to bring the fire into the cave. O, he doesn’t say any words but just sort of barks until I figure it out. The first Og must have woken up, heard a wolf, and thought, Well, that’s how it is then. Now every night they howl their pain at the moon.
That part I get.
I carry a torch of schelch femur and bark so loudly at Frank the air shivers. I wonder why the Ogs don’t at least huddle nearer the cave’s mouth, where there’s some moonlight—
Then I realize they’re afraid the moon might steal the new rock.
With his face hollowed by the torch’s thrown shadows, I sense more than see Frank’s glare. He’s not thinking, Blessed Fucking Bison, this woman sure can make a fire! or, Denise, what’s the moon’s deal? or even, Can she tell that my mammoth pelt is covered in the Grand Og’s cerebellum?
No, I can tell he’s thinking, Bitch better not try to take my rock.
Die in a fire, Frank, I bark at him.
He barks back.
I can’t believe we had a daughter together.
*
I don’t know if the saber-toothed-tiger skull the Ogs’ leader holds is like a scepter or a religious talisman or their highest court, but I do know whoever holds it has the final say no matter how stupid.
And it’s always stupid.
Like how in the morning, Frank screams at a mountain, the one towering above all others, with a peak so daunting the sun will be hours before it summits that snow-covered face. He’s decided it needs to be defeated. And since Frank holds the skull, the other Ogs have no choice but to beat their chests and yell insults about the mountain’s mother. They probably think the sheer face is just beyond the next stand of trees, but I know it’s weeks away. If we try to walk there, most of us, maybe all of us, will die.
But despite my prior attempts to institute participatory democracy, Frank points the tiger skull at it, and so it’s decided. That’s where we’re headed.
It’s okay.
Existing hasn’t really been working out anyway.
I am the first, but I am not alone. There’s me and there’s the Ogs, who huddle in the dark hollow of a cave. Why? Because Frank invented using one rock to make another rock a slightly different shape. Now they’re terrified someone might steal the new rock. I swear to god, these people.
Although they’re not, phylogenetically speaking, people.
I would tell them that I’m different, that I can make rocks all kinds of shapes, that Frank is obviously the one who murdered the Grand Og because there’s blood all over his new rock, but they wouldn’t listen to me. Not because I’m a woman, but because they don’t have a language, these dick-fingered fucks.
That doesn’t mean they can’t talk. They say the dumbest shit. Even now I can hear Frank asking me to bring the fire into the cave. O, he doesn’t say any words but just sort of barks until I figure it out. The first Og must have woken up, heard a wolf, and thought, Well, that’s how it is then. Now every night they howl their pain at the moon.
That part I get.
I carry a torch of schelch femur and bark so loudly at Frank the air shivers. I wonder why the Ogs don’t at least huddle nearer the cave’s mouth, where there’s some moonlight—
Then I realize they’re afraid the moon might steal the new rock.
With his face hollowed by the torch’s thrown shadows, I sense more than see Frank’s glare. He’s not thinking, Blessed Fucking Bison, this woman sure can make a fire! or, Denise, what’s the moon’s deal? or even, Can she tell that my mammoth pelt is covered in the Grand Og’s cerebellum?
No, I can tell he’s thinking, Bitch better not try to take my rock.
Die in a fire, Frank, I bark at him.
He barks back.
I can’t believe we had a daughter together.
*
I don’t know if the saber-toothed-tiger skull the Ogs’ leader holds is like a scepter or a religious talisman or their highest court, but I do know whoever holds it has the final say no matter how stupid.
And it’s always stupid.
Like how in the morning, Frank screams at a mountain, the one towering above all others, with a peak so daunting the sun will be hours before it summits that snow-covered face. He’s decided it needs to be defeated. And since Frank holds the skull, the other Ogs have no choice but to beat their chests and yell insults about the mountain’s mother. They probably think the sheer face is just beyond the next stand of trees, but I know it’s weeks away. If we try to walk there, most of us, maybe all of us, will die.
But despite my prior attempts to institute participatory democracy, Frank points the tiger skull at it, and so it’s decided. That’s where we’re headed.
It’s okay.
Existing hasn’t really been working out anyway.
Cuprins
Contents
Denise, or: The First Woman on Earth
Jesus Does a Hero
The Distance 983
And Who Shall Rule This Land of Freedom
A Prairie Romance
Self-Portrait as Greatest Generation
The Distance 1983
ANGELUS
All We Must Destroy, All We Must Save
Keith, or: The Last Man on Earth
Acknowledgments
Denise, or: The First Woman on Earth
Jesus Does a Hero
The Distance 983
And Who Shall Rule This Land of Freedom
A Prairie Romance
Self-Portrait as Greatest Generation
The Distance 1983
ANGELUS
All We Must Destroy, All We Must Save
Keith, or: The Last Man on Earth
Acknowledgments
Descriere
For fans of George Saunders and Kelly Link, funny, daring, and deliciously weird stories that span our history and confront our future.