
George Saunders Reads “Thursday”
The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker
Clara's Promise to Me
In a note, Clara Marker asks Gerard not to tell anyone that he'd heard from her. Since she'd come out here, it had been nothing but good: "She'd never felt so free" In the parking lot where the defunct Arthur Treachers used to be, I found myself thinking of Clara and wondering if she was really still alive. To me, someone had mired in my own bales over years ago, who had always been either on something or promising to quit something. The hospice nurse came in, to look on her face saying, Lord Mr. Marker, your time is nigh. She became Horace, bearing a tiny body bag, which morphed
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