The New Yorker: Fiction cover image

Akhil Sharma Reads Joyce Carol Oates

The New Yorker: Fiction

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Quintin, Aren't You Making Real Progress?

Quintin, a true zombi would be mine for ever. "I don't think i have any what you call pantasies," Quinton says to his therapist. Quintin's first zomby eyes live for seven hours, sometimes almost conscious. Bunny gloves convulsed like a madman when the ice pick entered the top of his left eyeball,. He screamed through the sponge gag, actually snapping the bailing wire securing his ankles. But he did not regain consciousness, dying in 12 minutes. At the time of bunny gloves, raison eyes, big guy, i did not have access to my caretakers quarters in the cellar of one 18 church but only

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