
Greg Jackson Reads “The Hollow”
The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker
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Van Go - A Poem of the Night
Van go didn't kill himself, everyone thinks he did, but it was some tea nagers that liked to prank him. They blew out the lamp. Valente said the sun had gone mostly behind the hill. A single ray wavered above the ridge like a fil of glass. Jack closed his eyes, a faint residue of red or orange seeped through his eyelids.
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