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Other Kinds
Dylan Nice
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“Dylan Nice's Other Kinds is the most extraordinary short-story-collection debut I
have read in years. |
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Buy now from Powell's Buy now from SPD |
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“We have been extremely fortunate to feature Dylan Nice’s prose fiction in
the last four editions of NOON. In 2013, we will showcase three new, brilliant
stories. His voice is startlingly mature and powerful — capable of probing the darkness
with a lyricism that illuminates and enlivens the spirit.” The stories in Other Kinds are about a place. They are stories about the woods, houses hidden in the gaps between mountains. Behind them, the skeletons of old and powerful machines rust into the slate and leaves. Water red with iron leeches from the empty mines and pools near a stone foundation. The boy there plays in the bones because he is a child and this will be his childhood. He watches while winter comes falling slowly down over the road. Sometimes he remembers a girl, her hair and the perfume she wore. These are stories about her and where she might have gone. He waits for sleep because in the next story he will leave. The boy watches an airplane blink red past his window. From here, you can't hear its violence. |
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Dylan Nice's stories and essays have appeared in NOON, Indiana Review, MAKE, Hobart,
Brevity, and Quick Fiction, among others. He lives in Iowa and is a graduate of the
University of Iowa's Nonfiction Writing Program. |
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excerpts and stories elsewhere online
"Their Health" at Quick
Fiction:
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She had me riding a ten-speed down a reclaimed railroad bed. She was talking about things she liked while I thought of things I did not like.
I did not like her house. I did not like its drywall. Its central air and Disney-themed snow globes ordered from a catalogue inside of a corner cabinet also ordered from a catalogue. I did not like their hot tub, their dryer, their dishwasher. I did not like their lifestyle, their health. I did not like that I liked her.
"Artifacts" (as 5/10/24) at Wag's Revue:
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This was a thing normal people do: they bring their dogs over and then the dogs play together while the normal people have a drink and talk about a vacation they just took or a cake recipe that turned out fabulous. I resented these types of behaviors, allowed no room for them in my life. But I was in graduate school and dog-sitting for friends of mine who lived in a nice house on the edge of town. The friends were a couple, both poets, and had gone to Portugal for two weeks to visit other friends, also poets.