The Five Senses
The terminal smelled like disinfectant and heavy perfume, a mixture that gave
Charles a headache on the spot. He shifted his body to the right, so that he was facing the stream of disembarking travelers. The Spanish ones had better faces than the tourists—better cheekbones, better lips, better hair. When he was younger, Charles would paint from life, but now he just snapped photos with his digital camera and painted from those. He loved that freedom, being able to have anyone’s face in his pocket. —The Vacationers, Emma Straub
(literary fiction)
Bunting ordered a feta cheese omelet and a cup of coffee, and the counterman turned away toward the coffee machine. Headlines and rows of black print at Bunting’s elbow seemed to lift up from the surface of the folded newspaper and blare out at him; the whole dazzle of the restaurant surged and chimed, as if saying Wait for it, wait for it … —The Buffalo Hunter, Peter Straub
(horror novella)
It’s been said that if you want a slice of time to stick out, to be crystal clear in your mind, one small difference in an otherwise normal routine is all it takes. Like if you’re the type who has trouble remembering whether you locked your front door before leaving for vacation, that you should separate it from all the other perfunctory times you’ve locked your front door. Something as simple as turning around in a circle just before you slip the key in the lock would do it. A simple movement and forever that memory will be burned into your mind. It becomes clear enough to play over and over again. You see the door, the key turning, the doorknob wobbling when you tested the lock, and there’s no guessing whether or not you did it because you know you did.
—First Lie Wins, Ashley Elston (thriller)
August is the worst time of year, so hot that it’s almost melancholy, like grief rising from the soil. It coats my skin, makes me feel limp.
—These Still Black Waters, Christina
McDonald (mystery)
Once again she gripped Kiki’s hand, this time with both of her own. The deeply lined black palms reminded Kiki of her own mother’s. The fragility of the grasp—the feeling that one need only release one’s own five fingers from it and this other person’s hand would smash into pieces. —On Beauty, Zadie Smith (literary fiction)
The sun wakes her. Or is it the unmistakable smell of breakfast— coffee, bacon, and eggs—moving upstairs to where she lies? … she is not sure she wants to leave this warmth. There is something pleasing about not moving, she thinks, for when you don’t move, there is no possibility you can ruin everything. —If I Forget You, Thomas Christopher
Greene (love story)
Jessica Strawser (JessicaStrawser.com) is editor-at-large for WD and the author of popular book club novels, including the Book of the Month selection Not That I Could Tell and the People magazine pick The Next Thing You Know. Her sixth novel, The Last Caretaker, just released in December from Lake Union.